


when you were mine

by purple01_prose



Series: blow us all away [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Windblade
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Comfort/Angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Windblade and Starscream explore the very necessary concept of 'boundaries' and--no. NO. STOP THAT. </p><p>follow up to 'third time's the charm'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rattrap's face claim is [here](https://media.livenation.com/artists/42868/42868-show-65653.jpg?1374689095).
> 
> So I thought the sex scene in the last chapter of TTTC was the filthiest thing I'd ever write, but it turned I was wrong, and--well--enjoy.

**CHAPTER ONE: IN WHICH WINDBLADE IS GIFTED WITH SOMETHING SHE DIDN’T ASK FOR**

 

Windblade shifted from foot to foot as she watched Starscream pack away the last of his suitcases. “You have everything you need?”

 

“ _Yes_ , I’ve packed away my toothbrush and everything.” He closed the trunk with a snap. “There’s still some room for your luggage.”

 

She rolled her eyes at him as he walked over to her. “I’ve already told you why,” she reproved. He ran his hands down her arms, but she didn’t relax. “Please stop pressing this and trying to make me feel guilty.”

 

“Fine.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It’s a seven hour drive, so I should probably get going.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” she warned as she followed him to the car door. “You let your ego do the talking too much. If you want to get elected in a close-knit community, you need them to root for you. Letting your ego do the talking will get you nothing but enemies.” She smoothed her hands over his shoulders. “Be careful, okay?”

 

“I will be nothing but careful.”

 

“You say that, but do you mean it? Really?” She looked him in the eye. “Tell me about this campaign manager when you meet him.”

 

“I will send you all the texts.”

 

“All right. You should get going,” she said reluctantly.

 

“Yeah.” He waited rather pointedly, and she sighed at him before leaning up on her toes to kiss him. He wrapped his hands around her elbows and kissed her back, and she relaxed against him.

 

After two beats, she pulled away. “Be safe.”

 

“I will.” He let her down with only some hesitation, and she stepped away from him. “Don’t forget to call.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

He got into the front seat, and she closed the door. She stepped away and wrapped her arms around herself as he turned the engine on, and she waved at him before he pulled out of the driveway.

 

She watched until he rounded the corner, and she heard the front door open. “Are you going to sigh over his exhaust fumes?” Megatron inquired from the door. “It’s hot out here, come inside.”

 

She swallowed the instinctive sharp reply and obeyed. “I should really get going,” she said as she passed him. “I have--.”

 

“What? Homework? I helped design Colonialism and Imperialism in East Asia. Nothing’s due for another week. Come in, it won’t hurt anything.”

 

She bit her tongue and followed him into the kitchen. “You seem unconcerned.”

 

“It’s not the first time he’s gone somewhere alone. He knows how to keep his nose clean.” Megatron opened the fridge. “I have iced chai, is that agreeable?”

 

“I’ll take it,” she sat down on one of the bar stools. She half-wondered where Optimus was, and then remembered he had office hours. “Are you teaching any classes this summer?”

 

“No, but that’s because I’ll be visiting two universities in July and early August to give a lecture, and I need to finish up an article for publication before that. I understand that Optimus’ summer goal is to finish up his paper about postwar international relations between Japan and the United States.”

 

“Yes, we’ve started—or rather continued—research already.” She nodded and thanked him when he gave her the glass, and he leaned against the counter.  “It’s fascinating, how much the fear of Russia had already started to influence US policy even before the war ended.”

 

“Optimus’ first Ph.D is in American history. Of course, being who he is, he wasn’t content with just one.”

 

“Are they like chips once you’re into academia?” she inquired.

 

“Sadly, I only have the one Ph.D to Optimus’ three postgraduate degrees. He was an overachiever.”

 

“It’s a Ph.D in history, international studies, and...?”

 

“He has a law degree in international law, that was his first postgraduate degree.”

 

“So then why are you teaching International Law?”

 

“Because Optimus has no patience to teach law specifically. He likes to teach history and context _around_ law.” He grinned at her. “Me, I like to teach law. Magnus still hasn’t forgiven me for taking it, but in the spring he’s starting up a course on military law applied on military bases in multiple countries, and he’s got a history in the military, so it’ll make him happy.”

 

“So Optimus worked in the UN, you were in the Senate, Professor Magnus was in the military and then--.”

 

“Criminal prosecutor and state senator.”

 

“Wow. That’s quite the history.”

 

“We told you, the university wanted to achieve parity with the likes of American university. Having an excellent faculty is part of that.”

 

“Having distinguished graduates is also part of that.” She rested her chin on her hand. “I wouldn’t be able to attend here without the very generous scholarships.”

 

She could see him tuck that away. “You have to have perfect grades and several extracurriculars for that.”

 

“As soon as I entered high school and realized I wanted to major in languages, I found this university and worked hard to get in. Getting my acceptance letter was the second happiest day of my life.”

 

“What was the first?” he had to ask.

 

She flashed a smile at him. “When I was informed what my financial aid package looked like.”

 

He laughed. “Well, that's a good enough reason for me."

 

\--

 

Starscream stared at his parents’ house through the windshield. He hadn’t been back since Megatron had gotten him emancipated; he hadn’t lived there full-time since he was eleven.

 

Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t make himself get out of the car. The gates to his house had closed behind him, so no one would call the police on the kid loitering at the Vos estate, but he couldn’t manage the energy it would take _to open the damn door_.

 

His phone chimed with a text—no, two texts. One was from Megatron, wondering if he had arrived safely, and the other was from Windblade. It was from about an hour ago, but he’d been blasting the _Hamilton_ soundtrack and hadn’t heard the text chime, thanks to “Guns and Ships.”

 

All it read was: ‘ _Going 2 sleep. Call me in the morning, I wanna hear about the drive.’_

 

He fired off a quick reply to Megatron, complete with a pic of the house, and that finally managed to get him out of the car. He’d unpack the rest of the car in the morning, but his duffel with all his essentials was on the right-hand seat.

 

His house keys had never left his key ring, and they fit oddly in his hands as he approached the front door. He would need to turn off the alarm. Megatron had offered to send someone to prep the house ahead of time for him, but he’d turned it down. He wasn’t ready to live there full time; he didn’t want to imply to the community he was there to stay yet. He kind of regretted it once he saw the sheets over the furniture and the fine layer of dust over everything. He sneezed and made a mental note to see about finding a team of cleaners in the morning.

 

When he went down to the Asheville house in December, he wouldn’t make that mistake.

 

He’d grabbed dinner about an hour ago, and he found the stairs leading up to the second floor landing. His childhood bedroom was up those stairs and the first room on the right, and halfway up the stairs he remembered he didn’t have to sleep there anymore. Distaste kept him from his parents’ room—definitely _not_ , at least not until he remodeled and got rid of his mother’s horrible taste in interior décor—but there was another master suite at the end of the hall.

 

His footsteps echoed off the wooden floors, and he shivered unconsciously. Like most Southern homes, it was built to reduce heat as much as possible with high ceilings, but the heat remained. “Air conditioning,” he said out loud, just to hear something other than his steps. “First things first.”

 

The typical white sheets draped over the furniture in the guest suite put the second thing on his list—sheets. He could sleep on the bare mattress (well...not _entirely_ bare) for one night, but by the next night, he wanted a fully made bed. There was an ugly painting of a stormscape on the wall, and he scowled at it while he dropped his duffel. “Third thing, getting rid of all the art I hate.” His mother had worked with Sotheby’s frequently; he was pretty sure he could use that connection to get them to take all the art.

 

He wandered back downstairs. The water and power had been turned on three days ago—that part he’d managed to get done, but the air conditioning unit was downstairs, and he wanted a glass of water.

 

The house was set up like a capital T, with the dining room and kitchen in the west wing. The east wing were the rooms for entertaining; he had almost no memories of ever actually being in those rooms. The north wing was the offices and storage. He would need to go through the entire house room by room, and he felt a stab of gratitude that Windblade had declined to go with him. He hated being back in his parents’ house, and he didn’t want her—or anyone, really—to see him so vulnerable at the moment.

 

But her especially.

 

He found his water but lingered in the kitchen. The house was old, almost a century, but his mother had made it her pet project to update all the plumbing and power lines to be as efficient as possible. It had, if he remembered right, taken almost a year. His father had escaped with him to an apartment in DC halfway through it.

 

The kitchen was done to his mother’s taste, the floors a greyish-white tile and warm wooden cabinets. The countertops were granite, and he ran his fingers along their surface. He wrinkled his nose as the dust and went over to the sink. That, at least, was normal, and he eyed the stove. It had six burners, and he barely managed to stifle the snort. His mother almost never cooked. It was ridiculous that she’d gotten such an advanced stove.

 

The bitterness rose in his throat, and he threw the glass against the wall, where it shattered. He stared at the mess, but instead of finding the broom, he elected to ignore it until the morning. It wasn’t like he could piss off his mother anymore.

 

\--

 

Windblade flexed her toes as she listened to the phone ring on the other end of the line. It was past nine in the morning, Starscream was a morning person like she was, so he should pick up—

 

“’lo.”

 

“Starscream?” she sat upright. He sounded—his voice was more raw than usual. “Are you all right?”

 

She heard him blow his nose into a tissue. “Sorry,” he said, his voice still raspy. “There’s a shit-ton of dust. I’ve got a team of cleaners here, but there is dust literally everywhere.”

 

“Ouch,” she pulled a face. “I didn’t know you had a dust allergy.”

 

“Neither did I.” He sounded so grumpy she had to smile. “What’s up?”

 

“I was thinking about complaining about this class, but I think you have more to complain about me, currently.”

 

“Hang on, let me switch you over to Bluetooth.” She waited while she heard him fumble, and there was a small beep before he said, “Okay, I’m back. And Jesus fucking Christ, do I have things to complain about. My family had _terrible_ taste in art.”

 

She wrapped her arm around her knees. “Really.”

 

“They only bought American work, but like, most American work that they picked out are terrible.” She could hear him making a grimace. “If you have to buy art, try the Impressionists for crying out loud!”

 

“I wasn’t aware you had such strong feelings about art,” she observed daintily, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He would hang up on her if he actually heard her laughing.

 

“How can I not? IT’S IN MY DAMN HOUSE.”

 

She turned a giggle into a cough, but he was still ranting and didn’t notice. He went on at length about the terrible quality of the artwork before he segued into how much he hated his mother’s taste for decorating—“Everything’s dark wood and darker floors. Do you know how much money has to be spent on lighting when the room itself soaks up light? Balance, damnit, _balance!_ ”—and about halfway thru the third rant, that one regarding how filthy the windows were, how could he expect to take astronomy readings on the second floor balcony when the windows needed cleaning, she realized that what he was really telling her was simple: he hated being back in his parents’ house.

 

“So change the décor,” she said when he stopped for breath. “Paint it the way you want to, redo the floors or whatever. It’s your house now, you can make it yours.”

 

He paused. “I—what?”

 

She got up off the bed to walk to her bookshelves. She needed something for an assignment. “I hate my mother’s house. It’s typical Southern, lots of lace and crystal. The couch is velvet—not joking. When my grandparents moved to Caminus, they really wanted to assimilate to the white community and thought the trappings would help them get there. My mother thinks it’s fine, it works for what she needs it to be, but if I’m ever in the position to redo the house—which I doubt, but whatever—I would make it my house. So do the same. Sell the paintings and use the money to do everything you want to.”

 

“That’s—not a bad idea.”

 

“You say that like you hadn’t already thought of it.”

 

“Well, I _had_ ,” he admitted. He stopped to blow his nose again, and she wondered if he was taking allergy medication. “But I’m only here for a month, and most of what I have in mind is going to take longer than that.”

 

“So make a list of everything you want to do, and get done what you can while laying the groundwork for the others.” She retreated back to her bed with the book she wanted. “Are you planning on selling the house?”

 

“It’s been in my family for almost four generations.”

 

“Guess not. So, do what you want. Who would stop you?”

 

“Who indeed,” he said thoughtfully. “You want to come up this weekend?”

 

She made a face at the wall. “I’m booked solid this weekend.”

 

“Megatron’s coming up next weekend. You could go with him.”

 

“Maybe. We’ll see how things go.” She would need to see her workload. If she could juggle her coursework, maybe. Though the idea of seven hours in a car with Megatron was...uncomfortable. “You know that Megatron and Optimus have asked that I come by for family dinner every weekend.”

 

“Informal or formal?”

 

“Informal, I think.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“That’s all I get?” She checked her phone. “You ranted for over an hour about your parents’ house, but all _I_ get is a ‘huh.’”

 

“I have to think about it,” he protested, but amusement layered his voice into something closer than his usual rasp. “Besides, free food.”

 

“With your fathers.”

 

“Only one of them,” he corrected. “Optimus is not my father.” Maliciousness tainted his words. “If anything, he’s more like _yours_.”

 

“I don’t actually need a father,” she said patiently.

 

“Have you told him that?”

 

“Somehow, it hasn’t come up.”

 

“I bet it hasn’t. Hey, I need to buy cookware, by the way. What do you recommend?”

 

She blinked. “What?”

 

“You have a good set--.”

 

“That my mother bought me.”

 

“Are you expecting me to believe you didn’t have a say in what you got?”

 

He had a point, she grumped. “Cookware’s personal, Starscream. I asked for handles I was comfortable with. Do you have an induction stove?”

 

“What’s that—oh, that’s the magnetic one?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No, I have a gas stove.”

 

“Then get to—normally I’d say Bed, Bath, and Beyond, but you’ve got money so—go to the local Williams-Sonoma and go talk to the people who work there. They’re going to have the best answer for you, and get what you’re comfortable with.” She tapped her chin. “Don’t get copper.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It takes more work than you want.”

 

“Like...?”

 

“Not being dishwasher friendly and needing to be polished?”

 

“Oh. Gotcha.”

 

“Why are you buying cookware anyway?”

 

“I might not have your knife skills,” he sniffed, “but I am capable of holding my own in the kitchen. I don’t want to eat take-out the entire time I’m here.”

 

“Fair enough. Somehow, the thought of you cooking is just...”

 

“Shut up. What did you want to complain about?”

 

“Just that imperialism sucks.”

 

“What case study?”

 

“Hong Kong.”

 

“ _Right_. I think you’re gonna spend a lot of time angry.”

 

“Yeah, probably.” She reflected on that gloomily. “This is going on all summer, we’re finishing at the end of July.”

 

“So basically a little over two months of this.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Fine, here’s some good news. I’m coming home June 12, and my birthday is June 17th.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

He huffed. “You’re not going to do something special for my birthday?”

 

“I’ll think about it.” She waited.

 

She was rewarded. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

 

“Perhaps.” She grinned. “You’re not the only one who can fuck with people.”

 

“Windblade--.”

 

“I have homework, bye now.” She hung up and laughed. He needed someone to keep him humble.

 

\--

 

Starscream stared at the paint samples. “What do you think?” he asked his to-be campaign manager. “I like the grey for the hallway.

 

Rattrap was a short guy with a bald head and a cheap suit. “Well, I think--.”

 

“I think the grey.” Starscream took the grey paint sample. “The kitchen should be something brighter. Kitchens should be welcoming places.” He moved over to the yellows, but winced at them. “Red’s bright and cheerful.”

 

“Sir, there are--.”

 

There was a cherry that would suit. It was a color Windblade would wear. There wasn’t a lot of painted wall in the kitchen, so the red wouldn’t overwhelm the cabinets and the tile. “I like this one.”

 

“Starscream.” Rattrap held his ground. “There are some things we need to talk about.”

 

“I know,” Starscream sighed. “But Megatron’s going to be here in two days and I think I’d like the three of us to sit down and discuss it. Doing the groundwork for my city council campaign is important and necessary, but so is turning my house into something I actually want to inhabit.”

 

Blink, blink went Rattrap, and Starscream waited.

 

“I think you should do blue for the entryway,” Rattrap pointed to a brilliant sapphire. “It’s more soothing.”

 

“Excellent choice.”

 

\--

 

Windblade swore at her reading. “ _No,_ that is _not_ what happened, you racist--.” Her phone shrilled, and she glanced at the ID before answering. “Um. Hi Mother.”

 

“Windblade, bad time?” Her mother’s voice was as level as ever, and Windblade’s stomach tightened.

 

“Just...doing homework. What’s up?”

 

“I happened to have a free weekend this weekend, and I was wondering if that would be an agreeable time to come visit. The school’s on break, but the faculty have finished up everything they need and--.”

 

Windblade pinched the bridge of her nose. _Sorry, Starscream_. “Yeah, that would be fine. Nautica’s back and working--.”

 

“Oh, it will be _good_ to see her again.” Her mother was incapable of sarcasm, and Windblade straightened her shoulders. Nautica didn’t much like her mother, but they could manage. “I’ll be up there around four on Friday.”

 

“We’ll look for you,” Windblade chirped.

 

“Excellent.” Her mother’s voice curled with affection. “We should go shopping.”

 

“Uh—yeah, okay.”

 

“I love you.”

 

Windblade’s heart squeezed. “I love you too, Mother.”

 

Her mother hung up, and Windblade pushed her books away. She was going to need to call Starscream, and she dreaded that conversation. She had been interested in going up to see him, but there had been a nagging sense she wouldn’t actually make it up there. She supposed she finally understood why.

 

So her mother was going to let someone else lecture on Friday. Maybe one of her Torchbearers; Mother _had_ been talking about preparing the graduating class for posts of their own. How was her mother dealing with the delegation? Probably suffering parental separation anxiety, she guessed.

 

Still, it was better to get the call to Starscream done sooner, rather than later. She got up off the bed to find her Bluetooth, and once she found it, she drifted into the kitchen to start to prep dinner. It was only—she checked—four in the afternoon, so he should be—“Hey, Windblade. What’s up?”

 

She paused in the process of taking Thai chilies out of the vegetable crisper. “What’s that background noise?” It sounded like a buzz.

 

“Oh, we’re painting.”

 

“With what, a buzzsaw?”

 

“A sprayer. We’re outside. The white paint needed to replaced. What’s up?”

 

“Just preparing dinner.”

 

“What are you making?”

 

“Not entirely sure yet.” She frowned at the shallots. “I have chilies, shallots, ginger, and garlic, so maybe stir fry.”

 

“They on sale last weekend?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“I’m keeping my house white, by the way,” he announced. “Colonial style houses with red brick and white paint look _so_ nice.”

 

“Thanks for telling me what style of architecture your house has,” she said with amusement. “That was subtle.”

 

He sniffed. “I wasn’t trying for subtlety.”

 

“Oh good, because you failed miserably.”

 

He sniffed again. “It’s a good thing I don’t run on _your_ validation.”

 

“Aw, sweetie,” she teased, “I validate you in plenty of other ways.”

 

“You could--.”

 

“Not while I’m cooking,” she interrupted.

 

“Awwwwwwww.”

 

“Besides, you’re outside, presumably with other people?”

 

She heard him shuffle. “Ugh, _yes_.”

 

“So there.”

 

She could hear him scowling. “Are you coming up this weekend so I can get my revenge?”

 

If she hadn’t been chopping, she would have closed her eyes. “I—no.”

 

“ _What?_ Is it because of your homework? Because I swear, me and Megatron have work to do and you’d have _time_ \--.”

 

“No, it’s not that.”

 

“Then what--?”

 

“My mother.”

 

She could have sworn the paint sprayer abruptly malfunctioned. “What,” he repeated, his voice utterly flat.

 

“My mother is coming up this weekend and has asked to spend time with me.”

 

“But you hate your mom.”

 

“I don’t hate my mother,” she contradicted. “It’s just...tense.”

 

“You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

 

“It’s true! It’s tense, but she’s trying, and she deserves the space to try. I need to give her that space.” Windblade put the paring knife before she cut up her fingers and went over to the sink to wash her hands. “I—she’s still my mom, Star. We were close for years, and the distance only happened after I went to college. Well. Before college. But. That’s not important.”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, his voce harsh and flat. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up without another word, and Windblade stared out the kitchen window. His issues with parental units in general—she understood that Megatron was probably one of the better parental figures for Starscream and all of his...him-ness, but she didn’t like the fact that he’d punched Starscream.

 

And now Starscream was angry with her, and she remembered the _last_ time that happened, and...

 

She wanted to rub her eyes, but she still had chili juice on her hands and that would not be pleasant. She didn’t deserve to be punished every time she made a choice that wasn’t what Starscream wanted.

 

He would have to mend it this time.

 

\--

 

Megatron muttered invective at terrible drivers who didn’t use turn signals as he parked. The house was bustling with activity, and there was even a team up on the roof. It took him a moment to spot Starscream—he was wearing loose pants, a black wife beater, and thick orange gloves. He was conferring with a knot of three other men, pointing to the windows.

 

“You’re getting a lot done,” Megatron called as he closed the door and locked it. He wasn’t blocking anyone in, and he checked the time. It was nearing two, the contractors probably wouldn’t be gone for another three hours or so.

 

Starscream clapped one of the men on the shoulder and came over. “Saving me time from having to do it next year. The roof needs to be replaced, and the lining needs to be fixed around the windows. We’ve been painting, and replacing the floors is almost entirely done. This house’ll be livable soon. Oh, and Pottery Barn is bringing by their stuff early next week.”

 

“You’ve been...very busy,” Megatron managed.

 

“Yeah, I heard something about cleaning and coping. It was either this or burn the place down, so in the interest of avoiding charges of insurance fraud and arson...”

 

“You’re very dusty,” Megatron observed.

 

Starscream grinned. “It feels _good_. Anyway, you’re early!”

 

“I left before dawn. Which, speaking of, _your_ girl sent something for you.” He went over to the side door. “She said something about not trusting you to bake for yourself.”

 

Starscream’s grin curdled into a scowl. “Of course she would, what is it?”

 

“They made it very hard to drive,” Megatron rolled his shoulders and handed Starscream the box. “I think she deliberately baked more than necessary.”

 

Starscream popped the lid, and the scowl faltered briefly when he inhaled the aroma of coconut and chocolate chunk cookies, but then he closed it with a snap. “Whatever.”

 

“Did you two fight?” Megatron angled his body forward just slightly. Optimus had theorized they’d fought when Windblade had showed up for research slightly despondent, but he hadn’t been so sure.

 

“Fighting implies an equal back and forth.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Why do you blame _me_?”

 

“Because if it was something she’d done, you would have given as good as you got. What did you do?”

 

“It’s not me! She chose not to come up because her mother called from out of the blue and asked that she be around.”

 

“Oh right, her mother’s having dinner with her and Optimus tonight.”

 

Starscream’s eyes narrowed. “Right.” He turned on his heel. “The roof’s going to be done in three days, flooring done in four. Turns out if you promise a large bonus, they’ll rush the work. ‘Course, it means that that they’re here from dawn to three hours past dusk, but it means I’m not really alone, which is good. This is a terrible house to be alone in.”

 

“It’s too big and too quiet?” Megatron knew that that meant ‘lonely’, but it would be a cold day in hell before Starscream ever admitted to anything like that.

 

“My parents are all over this place,” Starscream grumbled as he held the door open for Megatron. “It’s not mine.”

 

So that was the conversation they were going to have. “It’s—Starscream, your parents, despite their many flaws that I was very vocal about--.”

 

“I am really not interested in having a conversation that is an attempt to vindicate them.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

Starscream didn’t even bother to look at him. “I’m not sure about how I feel about the campaign manager. He’s a greaseball.”

 

Megatron sighed. “No. We’re not dropping this for once.” The door to the study was open and Megatron dragged him inside and closed the door. “Your parents--.”

 

“Do you notice how people always rush in to defend the parents?” Starscream’s voice was sharp enough to cut steel.

 

“Your parents were terrible parents,” Megatron interrupted. “Your mother’s benevolent racism made her look at you when you were being a typical selfish ten year old and think sociopath, and your father was too wrapped up in his research to see it. You deserved better parents.” Starscream stared at him. “I _will_ say that they thought they were doing the right thing, but they both had their blinders on. I fought your parents on everything I could. Change the whole house, who gives a fuck. It’s your house now. Spit on your mother’s legacy.”

 

Starscream blinked several times. “Really.”

 

“Yeah. You know, your mother absolutely hated Chagall. I’m _pretty_ sure I know where you could get some of his work.”

 

Starscream wrinkled his nose. “Selling elitist art in order to buy more elitist art isn’t exactly the image I’m trying to project. Ah yes, vote for me, the elitist educated guy who has severe mommy issues.”

 

“Recognizing you have a problem is the first step to healing.”

 

“Stop it.” Starscream sighed. “So this isn’t at all pathological.”

 

“Would you care if it was?”

 

“Would it look odd if I went into therapy?” Starscream considered that. “No, no therapy. You can’t trust them to keep doctor-patient confidentiality if there’s a big enough paycheck on the line.”

 

“You just—.”

 

“You should see the rest of the house. So we’ve been painting the interior, that’s pretty much done, and I’m replacing the flooring in the kitchen and the main master suite. I’m making a list of what I want to do next year, and redesigning my father’s study is top of the list.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with this study.” Megatron looked around. It was a carpeted floor with oak bookshelves up against the walls with a large desk toward the windows.

 

“I don’t want carpet, and I want to replace one wall with whiteboards and a Smartboard. I’m doing politics for a living, I _know_. But it’d be nice to have space to do astrophysics research too that isn’t a lab.”

 

“Don’t you have--?”

 

“It’s all glass, so it works for observation but not so much actual research, because it gets too cold or too hot.”

 

“Hm, fair enough. Fine, show me the rest of the house, are you even able to cook in your kitchen?”

 

“Yes,” Starscream said in injured tones.

 

“Have you made anything beyond box Mac’N’Cheese yet?”

 

“I would _never_ ,” Starscream pulled a face. Megatron noted the rich grey of the hallway—remarkably, it worked with the darker flooring. “I eat a lot of pasta,” he admitted after a beat. “But it’s not hard to pull a pasta sauce together. Crushed tomatoes, garlic, onion, and salt, or white cheese melted into cream with garlic and black pepper.”

 

“Basically items you buy a lot of and store.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Have you been drinking?”

 

Starscream gave him a strange look. “You know I rarely do that.”

 

“When you’re cruising, you do.”

 

“I haven’t exactly had the time. Besides, I have no liquor store recommendations.”

 

Megatron leaned against one of the counters. The floor by the stove and the fridge _was_ done, and Starscream nodded to the person working on the floor. “You haven’t felt...the inclination, at all.”

 

Starscream shrugged.

 

“Thank you for this windfall of knowledge.” Megatron looked around. “Okay, where do you need an extra pair of hands?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“It’s two— _seventeen_ , so I might as well get something done. Where do you need an extra pair of hands?”

 

Starscream looked intrigued. “You any good with a paint sprayer?”

 

“Not too bad.”

 

“Out back could use some work.”

 

“Let me change, and then I’ll get to work.” Megatron eyed his shirt. “I’m rather fond of what I’m wearing.”

 

“You know the house layout.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“I’ll see you out there, then.” Starscream hitched his chin up.

 

“The guest suite?”

 

“That’s where I’m sleeping, currently.”

 

“Then the first master suite.”

 

“Little dusty,” Starscream warned.

 

“I’ll live.”

 

\--

 

Starscream waited impatiently for the Skype icon to de-pixilate. Once it did, the screen clarified into Windblade with that awful ballet bun and a black t-shirt. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

 

She paused in sipping her tea. “I am here _now_ , and you’ve been offline for the past five days. The only word I’ve had from you have been in infrequent texts, which were largely attempts to get me to sext you, which, _thanks_. Especially since you haven’t talked about anything but that since we fought.”

 

Starscream disregarded that. “Why are you working two jobs, anyway? Isn’t the income from the TA job enough?”

 

She sighed and decided to follow along with his chosen topic of conversation. “Normally, yes, but I have a few expenses that are going to be rather large, and it would be nice to not have to dip into my savings for it.”

 

Starscream propped his chin on his hand. “What kind of expenses?”

 

The lighting wasn’t too good in Windblade’s room, but he could see her flush slightly. “Most of my...undergarments are in various degrees of tattered, but if I wait a week, I’ll have two paychecks from the coffeeshop and sales at my preferred stores to look forward to.”

 

“Why didn’t you just ask me for help?” he complained. “I would’ve been happy to help. We could have gone _together_.”

 

“Except that you would have preferred to choose _for_ me, and unfortunately I need bras that are functional, not just fun to take off,” she retorted. Her flush had deepened, but she wasn’t stepping back. “I’m not against having something fun, but I need it to be largely functional.”

 

“You can’t have pretty _and_ functional?”

 

“Clearly you have no understanding of what women’s functional lingerie looks like.”

 

“I think that I’ve--.”

 

A link popped up, and he clicked on it. His eyebrows went up. “This is your chosen functional stuff?”

 

She shrugged. “I’ve tried several brands, and this is my favorite. Yes, okay, it’s a _little_ pretty but in a non-detailed way. It holds up over time, and I don’t feel like I bounce everywhere.”

 

“Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with bouncing everywhere,” he leered.

 

“Shut up, you have a vested interest in me bouncing everywhere. So yes, that’s why I ditched your amazing offer to come up to your house in Virginia and be part of your home-repair team. Because I need to buy lingerie. Any other questions?”

 

He exited the link. “I heard your mom and Optimus had dinner.”

 

“Oh yeah. _That_.” She wrinkled her nose. “They got along okay, I know they email now, but it was _weird_. You’re right, Optimus at least subconsciously thinks of me as his daughter.”

 

“Like, weird how?”

 

“Optimus got kind of defensive of me at one point, when Mother remarked that I had so little free time. She meant it as an observation, but Optimus said in a flat, emotionless voice, kind of like--.”

 

“I know the voice,” Starscream interrupted, “he’s used it on me when he thinks I’m being unreasonable.”

 

“Yeah, that ‘Windblade has shown admirable time management skills in how she balances all of her commitments, to the detriment of her own personal life. I am confident that she will succeed in whatever field of choice as a result of those skills.’”

 

Starscream raised his eyebrows. Windblade’s voice wasn’t quite low enough to mimic Optimus’ vocal register, but Starscream could imagine Optimus saying that. “How did your mom react?”

 

“She kind of, um, flinched. Then she said more quietly that she was proud of how I managed my time, but she wished she could see me more. Optimus lost the stiffness, and the dinner went okay after that.”

 

“And now they email back and forth.”

 

“Mother told me that they were talking, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don’t tell Mother everything for multiple reasons, and I’m afraid Optimus will tell her something I don’t want her to know.”

 

“Well, you can stop confiding in Optimus or...”

 

“Or?” she asked.

 

“You can ask him to clear a topic with you first.”

 

“I might do that. How much time do you have left up there?”

 

He grinned. “Are you _missing me_ , Windblade?”

 

She flapped a hand at the webcam. “I’m getting tired of the only contact we have is that you’re asking me to talk you through masturbation.”

 

“It _could_ be a mutual thing.”

 

“How much time?” she continued, ignoring him.

 

“I’ve got about another week and a half. All other projects I want to do are going on a sheet of paper and going into my father’s safe. I’ll do them next year.”

 

“What projects are almost done?”

 

“The roof is almost done, and the flooring project is done. The furniture from Pottery Barn is here and arranged, and I’m almost done selling all of my mother’s terrible art. I just have to go through my mother’s study, but I might wait on that until next year. My mother...”

 

“I get it.” Her face creased with softness, and he knew if she was physically there with him, she might have squeezed his wrist or leaned into him. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, Megatron’s your parent now, for better or worse. But—look, Star, you _can_ tell me things.”

 

“I don’t--.”

 

“I know Megatron punched you in February,” she said in a rush. “I figured it out and I was waiting for you to tell me, but I know.”

 

He stiffened. He had known she had figured it out, but it was the first time she had mentioned it so bluntly. “Windblade, that’s not--.”

 

“I’m not going to do anything,” she told him, her eyes gentle even through the Skype video call. “It’s your relationship, and it’s not my place to butt in. But— _if_ you want to tell me things, you can.”

 

He sighed. “It wasn’t what you thought it was, but I’d prefer to have this conversation when I’m back home. Let me bring it up.”

 

“I will.” She leaned back against her bed and sipped her tea. “Is the house getting quiet again?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll have a few days alone after everyone’s done, but I think by then I’ll want the quiet. It’s been so noisy the last few weeks.”

 

She smiled, and she must have been under the air vent, because Starscream suddenly became aware she wasn’t wearing a bra. “I miss you, but I’m kind of glad I wasn’t there. The noise would have grated on me.”

 

“Well,” he drawled, and she rolled her eyes at him. “We could--.”

 

“Starscream--.”

 

“You _did_ say you missed me. That assumes you missed the sex, too.”

 

“You know, remarkably, some people are capable of living without sex.”

 

“Yeah, but why would you want to, if it’s freely available?”

 

“Because my mind is capable of wanting more than bodily intimacy,” she said, her voice severe. Despite that, her mouth twitched, and he perked up. It meant she was thinking about it. After a few more beats, she stood up. “Gimme a quick sec.”

 

He heard her close the door, and then there was a rustling. The webcam shifted from its’ view of Windblade’s pillow to her headboard, and he realized she must have placed her laptop on some kind of board. She settled back in front of the webcam, and to his disappointment she was still clothed.

 

“Awww,” he complained at her.

 

“Stop ‘awwwing’ at me,” she told him. “If you want to do— _that_ , you have to earn it.” She settled against the pillows. “Earn _me_. I’m not some kind of sex slot machine, Starscream. When we fight, I’m willing to own my part in it, and sometimes, yes, I make mistakes. But you need to do the same.”

 

“I want you to choose me.”

 

“I do choose you,” she sighed. “But you want me to choose you over my responsibilities, and I’m not in the place where I can afford to do that. Yes, sometimes I put off writing a paper or grading something because there’s a chance we could have sex, but I’m not at the place where I can blow off a shift at work for you. That’s not bad. I’m in that position right now, but I won’t always be there.”

 

“I could--.”

 

“I _know_ you could, but this is about me. I promised myself that when my mother and I—that’s not important. I promised myself that I would pay for myself and only ask for help when there was nothing I could do. I’ve been able to uphold that promise. I’m not asking you for help when I can put in the work to do it myself, but that has a cost.” Her lips twisted. “Pardon the pun.”

 

“Fine,” he sighed. He couldn’t fault that. “I will be less of an asshole to you about that.”

 

“Is there anything you’d like to add to that?”

 

“I—apologize for picking a fight.”

 

“All right.”

 

“Can we have cyber sex now?”

 

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

 

“What?! I miss you!”

 

“Do you miss me or my cunt?” she demanded.

 

He blinked at her, and she blushed furiously. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever used that word. Do you really think I only want you around for sex?”

 

“Well, _gee_ , when the only thing you consistently ask me is for variations of ‘can we fuck now’ it makes a girl wonder.”

 

It must have really upset her. “I haven’t had sex with anyone else since Velocity,” he told her. “Skyfire thinks that I have some kind of weird romantic attraction thing, where the romantic attraction doesn’t happen without trust or whatever. I think he’s too much onto that queer stuff, but there’s a difference to how I’m attracted to you and how I’m attracted to other people. I know it sounds like splitting hairs, but it’s not.”

 

“No, I think I know what you’re saying, but you haven’t even taken me out on a _date_.”

 

“Studying doesn’t count?”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Fine, when I come back, I will take you out with all due style, and you’re letting me pay!”

 

“That’s fair,” she agreed, and he had the sudden sense she had him exactly where she wanted him.

 

Touché.

 

“ _Now_ can we cyber-sex?”

 

“And if I said no?”

 

“I would respect it but I would grumble about it.” He peered at her. “You’ve never done cyber-sex before, have you, and you’re worried about doing it wrong.”

 

She flushed. The screen pixilated, but in a few moments it cleared up again. “Yes.”

 

“You can’t do it wrong.”

 

She sipped her tea. “Trust me, sex is something you can do wrong.”

 

“We haven’t done it wrong.”

 

She snorted. “We barely manage to take off all our clothes most of the time.”

 

“Yeah, but the orgasms are great.”

 

“I’m not disputing that, but fabric burn sucks.”

 

“I’d be happy to tend your wounds.”

 

“For the record? That will never _not_ sound creepy coming from you.”

 

“But I’m just demonstrating my care for you,” he said, straight-faced.

 

“That would be more believable if you could manage to hold it in your pants long enough to take your pants off.” Windblade blew a piece of hair out of her face. “You want to make this about smoothing body cream onto more sensitive skin, that’s fine, but there’s an easy way to prevent it.”

 

“C’mon, don’t you think there’s something illicit in _not_?”

 

“Only if it’s not the only kind of sex we have.” She gave him an unimpressed look. “Try harder.”

 

“Well, you _could_ start by taking off your shirt...”

 

“Don’t—be an ass.”

 

“Okay, fine.” He reached down and pulled his shirt over his head.

 

She raised her eyebrows at him. “What is this, a game of chicken where the ultimate goal is to be naked?”

 

“If you want to think about it that way, then sure.”

 

She peered at him. “Is that a scar?”

 

He looked down, and—“Yeah. I, uh, got into a fight with all of my parents’ glassware and dishes.”

 

“And that was--?”

 

“I decided I hated the pattern, so I smashed all of it, and then I slipped on a wet spot on the floor and one of the pieces got revenge.”

 

“Did you go to the hospital?”

 

He batted a hand. “Not that bad. I cleaned it, bandaged it, and left it alone.”

 

She hesitated briefly before yanking her shirt off. His eyes immediately fastened on her breasts, but she turned her body and showed him a jagged pink line that crossed down her side. It stopped at her hip, and he remembered seeing it before—remembered tracing it with his tongue—but he’d never stopped to really _look_ at it. “Plate shards. Doctor said it was lucky it was just superficial, but I still needed seven stitches. It’s finally fading, thank Solus.”

 

“So....?”

 

“I know how I got all cut up. With all the various options given to you, like, say, _charity_ , you chose to smash up the dinnerware?”

 

He coughed. “I’ve been told it’s a good method of dealing with frustration.”

 

“And have you come to terms with your parents’? Do you _feel better_?”

 

“I—well, uh--.”

 

“Go see a therapist, Star. There’s nothing wrong with it. You might even like yourself better afterwards.”

 

“I like myself fine.”

 

“Indeed, your ego hides absolutely nothing about how you feel about yourself and your latent narcissist tendencies,” she said dryly. “But as it is now, someone brings up your parents and you freeze up or lash out. Wouldn’t it be nice not to do that when a political opponent brings it up, hoping to wound?”

 

“You make a compelling argument.”

 

“Mostly that you’ve taught me through trial and error how to kind of manage you.” She smiled ruefully. “So...you wanna take off your pants?”

 

“You _have_ learned how to manage me,” it was his turn to sound severe. “So does this mean you’re willing to give cyber-sex a shot?”

 

“You can’t laugh at me,” she told him. “I know you like to laugh at me, but you can’t laugh at me. About this.”

 

“Fine, I solemnly swear I will not laugh at you. But I do get to tease you later.”

 

“Non-malicious teasing only.”

 

“ _Fine_.” He unbuttoned his pants and pulled them off. He left his boxer-briefs on; game of naked chicken wouldn’t end so quickly. “There. Now you.”

 

She flushed slightly. “This feels a little like a transaction.”

 

“Does it? You’re not getting paid.”

 

“I love that you keep me on point like that,” her voice was very dry. “I am not turned on right now.”

 

He glanced down. Neither was he. “Fine, let’s talk it out. What you do if I was there?”

 

“ _Please_ borrow more from the frat boy handbook.”

 

“You know what I do if you were here?” He considered the question. There were so many things he liked to do to her. “I’d kiss you. Hard. You know that little whimper you make when I bite you? I love that little whimper. You get all weak-kneed when I kiss you like that.”

 

“You are a fantastic kisser,” she agreed. “I love that your mouth has multiple uses.”

 

“Oh _thanks_. Just for that, I’d spank you.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” she gasped.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t put you over my knee or anything. That’s gross. I’d just turn you over. I’d bet you’d squawk with surprise, and your hips would jerk.”

 

“Spanking does not turn me on.”

 

“Oh, it would only sting for a moment. I don’t get off on causing pain. Well, maybe I could, but I’ve never had a partner who got off on pain, so I’ve never explored that particular kink. Have you?”

 

“My first boyfriend,” she admitted. “He liked it, a little. He liked to use hard sex as punishment, too. He didn’t—this is not a conversation I want to have while we’re supposed to be cyber-sexing.”

 

“...right.” That sounded like something they would need to talk about. Later. “So after I spanked you, once, through your pants, I’d turn you back around and kiss you again. Just to show no hard feelings.”

 

“I’d run my nails down your back. Because don’t spank me, damnit.”

 

His back arched slightly. _That_ , he liked. A lot. “If you were in this house, I’d carry you to the kitchen. The cabinets are tall enough for me to bend you over them, and I’d kiss your neck.”

 

“I’d reach behind me and grab your thigh,” her voice had gone soft, and the light from her laptop was throwing her in sharp relief as the sunlight faded from her bedroom. Her nipples were bright pink peaks, and he wished he could take one of them into his mouth.

 

“I’d grab your hands and pin them. You only get what I want to give you.”

 

“I’d roll my hips back into yours. I hate it when you do that.”

 

“Frustrated hate or angry hate?”

 

She considered it. “Frustrated. You have more patience than I do. Sometimes I just want it fast.”

 

“So then...”

 

“Scene change, from the kitchen to the couch.”

 

“Go for it.”

 

“I’d straddle your lap. You like to distract me when I’m on top, maybe because you don’t like anyone else to take the lead, so I’d wrap my hands around your face and kiss you. I like it when you run my hands down my sides--.”

 

“I’d tweak your nipples.” At some point, his voice had gone hoarse. “You like it when I pull on them. Maybe you don’t like spanking, but you like that.”

 

She dropped her eyes. “I-I do. I like it w-when--.”

 

“When I what?” Maybe the webcam thing was a good thing. It forced them to be honest in a way that face-to-face prevented.

 

“When you bite them,” she whispered, her cheeks entirely scarlet. “Not hard, but enough that I can _feel_ it.”

 

“I love it when you scratch me. I love fighting with you, and taking that level of competition into sex is—great.” His dick was finally starting to get hard. “It’s not punishment or control or anything, it’s just--.”

 

“A challenge. Who can best the other.” Windblade’s hand was on her breast, and her head fell back against the pillows as she pulled on her nipple. “But other kinds of sex are okay too.”

 

“Pants,” his breath hitched slightly. “Off. Now.”

 

“Okay.” She fumbled with her leggings and finally managed to yank them off. Her underwear was black, and he wondered if he had seen them before. “Are you t-touching--?”

 

“Just light touches,” he gasped slightly as he traced the tip of his cock through the cotton. “I want this to last.”

 

She raked her nails down her side. “I wish I could touch you. I’d run my fingertips down your shaft, until you were mumbling into my neck and your hands were tight on my hips. You’d never beg, I mean, I want you to, but you’d just mumble and jerk your hips and hope I get the message.”

 

“I’d give you the condom,” there was a wet spot on the boxer-briefs. “You’d tighten your hand around my shaft as you put it on, and you’d lick your lips slightly.” His breathing stuttered when she did just that, the tip of her tongue flicking out to the corner of her mouth.

 

“I like touching you,” she breathed, one hand sliding down to rub herself through her panties. She went slow—she was teasing herself, he knew what that looked like. “Your dick isn’t uncomfortably big or small. It’s good. I know that guys think dick size means a lot, but it totally doesn’t.”

 

“I have _never_ believed that,” he informed her. It was even mostly true.

 

“You are so much more enlightened than the rest of those damn frat boys,” she quipped. “But you’ve measured it against Thundercracker and Skywarp’s.”

 

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t turn me on right now.”

 

“Let me guess, I-I do?” She attempted a smile, but she gasped instead as her fingers worked faster.

 

“Yep. Maybe it’s time to take the underwear off.”

 

“Good plan,” she pulled hers off violently, and he followed suit. When she went back to circling her clit, he nearly bit his lip at the image. Skype distorted the sound, but given the ease she was working her clit, he _knew_ she was wet.

 

“You’d finish with the condom and you’d sink down on my cock,” he had one hand around his cock and the other knotted in the sheets. It was too easy to imagine. “You’d be so warm and slippery, and the way your cunt clenches around me is just—“ she flinched slightly at his use of the term ‘cunt’ but her fingers worked faster. “Inside. Put them inside. I know you like that.”

 

When she plunged her fingers inside, the ragged gasp felt like it could have been torn from his throat. “You kiss your way down my neck to my collarbone, and you run the edge of your teeth against it. It makes me come down harder on you, and your hands--.”

 

“I tighten my hold on you,” his hand was working fast, helped along with the pre-cum. He wasn’t going to last as long as he wanted to at that rate. “But you want to drag it out, you like it when we’re sweaty and messy.”

 

“If you’re not sweating, you’re not working hard enough.” Sweat was pouring down her neck, and he watched as the laptop light caught it and made her breasts shimmer. Her hips were bucking, and she spread her legs for better leverage. “You try to hurry me along, and you meet me--.”

 

“You make these little...stifled noises,” he inhaled sharply through his nose. “Like you’re afraid of your roommates hearing you. When you’re here, though, it’s just you and me and you can be loud.”

 

“I’m never loud,” she panted, “but you groan loudly enough for me to feel it, and that’s the v-very last thing I ne—eed,” her hips moved more furiously and she gasped. Her hand slowed and her legs went slack. That was the thing about girl orgasms, he mused. They were more of a feel thing than a see thing. Guys got stuff everywhere.

 

“Your whole body quakes when you come,” he flicked his thumb over the head of his cock just a little too roughly, and he was startled by his own moan, “and it’s enough to send me over. I try to get a few more thrusts in, but you tend to go boneless after you’re done, and I need to catch my breath.” One, two—and he came all over his hand. Spunk was always too sticky, even when it was hot, and he made a face at it before reaching for a tissue. “I always like to kiss you in the aftermath.”

 

“I like that you do that.” Her hand moved from her cunt and she reached off-screen for something, a tissue of her own, he presumed. “I like kissing.”

 

“I know you do.” He examined his hand for any last traces, and made a mental note to wash his hands once the call ended. He eyed her as she came down from the natural high, and he said neutrally, “So, that wasn’t so bad.”

 

“Roleplaying is always a little weird for me,” she admitted. “But for a first try—on my part—that wasn’t too bad.”

 

“The boyfriend—is there anything he did that I should--?”

 

“He didn’t do anything I didn’t consent to,” she said, weary. “It was just bad sex. Turned me off dudes for quite a while, too. I had my first girlfriend—well, _only_ girlfriend, actually—not too long after him, and while it was nice, and I liked it, sex just took too long. Too much work for too little reward.”

 

“But you started hooking up?”

 

“Occasionally, when the itch was distracting me. Sometimes, a fast fuck in a discreet location actually helped me concentrate better, and there were no expectations afterward. I didn’t want that to be the only kind of sex I had for the rest of my life, but it worked for what I needed at the time.” She made a face at him. “Any other concerns?”

 

“Nah, just glad that you talked about all of that in the past tense.”

 

“Oh please, at this point, I doubt I could get rid of you, even if I wanted to. You’re a persistent fucker.”

 

“Yes I am,” he said proudly.

 

“I’m hanging up now,” she told him.

 

“No, hang on--.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thanks. For doing something you were uncomfortable with.”

 

“If it got too uncomfortable, I would have said no,” she said at last. “I’m better at that now. I don’t know if I want to make this a habit, but yeah, it was—good.”

 

“It could be better. You know, if you were actually--.”

 

Without warning, she hung up the call and he laughed to himself. He could embarrass her and tease her, but she knew how to keep him in line.

 

Well, sort of.

 

\--

 

“Mail call,” Nautica announced, jumping over the back of the couch and narrowly missing landing in Windblade’s homework.

 

Windblade merely picked her book and notes up in time, and Nautica shoved her feet into Windblade’s lap. “You’ve got mail!” She brandished the envelopes at her. “Nice, _thick_ ones too. Did a relative die and give you money?”

 

“My only known relative is my mother, and believe me there would have been a phone call.” Summer midterms were fast approaching, and Windblade’s voice was perfectly serene. Some people ran off the rails with stress. Windblade merely locked it down and became _very_ efficient.

 

“Hm, no return address, but the handwriting looks _very_ familiar--.”

 

“Nautica.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Nautica handed it to Windblade with ill grace.

 

The handwriting was Starscream’s, and she raised her eyebrows as she opened the envelope. Two thick giftcards fell out, and one of them was in a bright pink stripe. “Oh I cannot _believe him_.”

 

“That’s the murder voice,” Nautica brightened. “Are you going to kill him? Do I get to watch?”

 

“If there is murder done, I would never have you charged as an accessory,” Windblade murmured, opening the folded letter. The paper was unnaturally thin, and she narrowed her eyes at it. Starscream’s spiky handwriting danced across the page; normally his handwriting was bolder strokes, but he must have been afraid of tearing the delicate paper (then _why didn’t you use regular cardstock,_ you fool?), because his handwriting was fainter.

 

_Windblade—_

_Get your **coughs** **FUNCTIONAL** underwear, but go ahead and get something **coughs NICE** too. Consider it an investment in my birthday present._

_Kisses,_

_Starscream_

 

“I cannot _believe_ him,” Windblade’s voice curled with venom. “I just—he just--.”

 

“He sent you money to buy fancy underwear?”

 

“He sent me,” she checked the dollar amounts and her eyebrows almost flew off her forehead, “ _two_ giftcards, one for Victoria’s Secret--.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And the other for Soma.”

 

“And dollar amounts?”

 

“Outrageous.”

 

“Oh wow. He must really want to see you mostly-naked.”

 

“Oh _thanks_.”

 

“You could get him back,” Nautica sat upright and beckoned for Windblade’s laptop. Windblade, with a general air of bemusement, passed it over to her. “ _If_ you do it, I demand pictures of his face, okay? That’s the price of me giving your inspiration.”

 

“All right,” Windblade was dubious, and she placed the giftcards on the coffee table before looking down at her notes. While Nautica whistled to herself as she went hunting, Windblade immersed herself back into the history of Japanese imperialism in the Korean peninsula.

 

“Here.”

 

Windblade glanced up and nearly choked. “What the _hell_ is that?”

 

“Leverage,” Nautica chirped. “He said to get something nice, so...get him something nice.”

 

Windblade reluctantly looked at the photo again. “He’d never wear it.”

 

“That’s not the point. If he wants to basically demand that you wear clothes he approves of, you should return the favor. _But_ , seriously? Get what you need. You can mock him relentlessly while using up your savings for other things you need.”

 

“Why is it cheaper than lady lingerie?” Windblade complained as she took a closer look.

 

“Because it’s made of red lamé?”

 

“That’s just—I can’t--.”

 

“There’s another one that’s slightly more formal.” Nautica took the laptop back, and Windblade didn’t bother to go back to her homework. “It should work for all of his sensibilities.”

 

That time, when Windblade laid eyes on it, instead of choking with embarrassment she choked with laughter. “That’s _perfect_ ,” she wiped at the corners of her eyes. “I can actually see him in that.”

 

“Knowing him, he’d wear it just to spite you.”

 

“That would be totally fine.”

 

“So get what you need and tease him.”

 

“Will you come with me?” Windblade squeezed Nautica’s knee. “I need a new pair of heels, too.”

 

“Fuck me pumps?”

 

“He’s going to take me on a _date_. The two fancy dresses I have are more suitable for language mixers than an actual date.”

 

“Oh right, put on a string of pearls and you look like a Republican trophy wife.”

 

“Well, not entirely,” Windblade was _very_ dry.

 

“You have plenty of dresses.”

 

“ _Casual_. Suitable for class and work, but,” Windblade flushed slightly, “not quite suitable for a date.”

 

“You’re excited.”

 

“I haven’t been on a date in literal years. I’m nervous.”

 

“All right, so we’ll find you fuck-me pumps and a nice dress and I need new sneakers.” Nautica straightened her back and smirked.

 

“Yours are finally ready to give up the ghost?”

 

“Apparently asking them to do my regular run-around after taking them up and down the Alps is just too much.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Windblade patted Nautica’s thigh sympathetically.

 

“I know, but I have to find the strength to carry on,” Nautica sighed dramatically. “So Saturday? That way Chromia can come with us?”

 

“Yes, good plan.” Windblade’s hands inched toward the laptop. “He’s going to be home next weekend, so I should probably order that now.”

 

“ _Excellent_ plan. Please. Pictures. I want them.”

 

Windblade stifled a giggle behind her hand. “I’ll do my best.”

 

\--

 

Windblade hid a yawn behind her hand as she padded to the kitchen for a refill on her iced tea. The house was mostly quiet—Chromia was pulling a night shift again and Nautica was out with Brainstorm and Velocity—and with summer midterms behind her, she finally had some breathing room on the final essay due at the end of the course. Optimus had been kind enough to lend her the texts they’d been using for their research, and it was providing most of the sources she needed to accurately analyze how the Domino Theory played with American imperialism into South Asia. She wasn’t writing anything particularly groundbreaking, but it was a summer course and there was no expectation of _being_ particularly groundbreaking.

 

Her phone shrilled a text notification, and she checked it. From Starscream, there was a ‘IM ON UR STOOP’ with a rolled eyes emoticon, and she set down her glass down on the counter as she went to the door. “There’s such a thing as _knocking_ ,” she informed him, propping one hand on her hip.

 

“Yeah, but it’s not as fun as texting you.” He was leaning his hand against the doorframe, and she was fighting hard to keep from smiling. She _had_ missed him.

 

“You cut your hair.”

 

She glanced down at her braid. She’d shorn her hair to a little past shoulder length five days ago, out of patience with how much maintenance her longer hair had taken. “Yeah. It takes a lot less time to dry now.”

 

He ran his fingers down her braid and tugged on the end. “I like it, it suits you. You going to invite me in?”

 

“There’s one thing I need to do first.” She pushed herself onto the tips of her toes and threw her arms around his neck. He returned it, lifting her off her feet entirely and stepping into the house.

 

“I love that I just pick you up,” he teased, closing the door behind them. She tried to let him go, but his arms tightened around her waist.

 

“Put me down, you giant.”

 

“No.” He stooped down to scoop up her legs, and she tightened her hold around his neck.

 

“Oh my god, you’re clingy,” she snorted. They were heading in the direction of the bedroom, but he stopped short.

 

“There’s no need to insult me,” he said loftily.

 

“You’re the one who picked me and is making a beeline for my bedroom.”

 

“Is that an insult?”

 

She wriggled slightly in his arms. “No, I guess not. But let’s face it, as soon as you could get your hands on me, you did. That’s clingy.” She tilted her face up at him and made sure she looked as innocent as possible. “That’s not bad, you goofball.”

 

“I could drop you,” he said, just as innocent.

 

Her arms tightened around his neck. “Please don’t. I don’t feel like making a violent introduction to the floor today.”

 

“I didn’t think so.” He nudged the door open, and she had a brief flash of gratitude that she’d made the bed. “But I am going to drop you--.”

 

“Ooof!”

 

“Now.” He loomed over her as she propped herself up on her elbows, her loose shirt falling off one shoulder. She had worked an early morning shift at the coffeehouse that morning and then spent about three hours after that with Optimus. She’d come home roughly four hours ago and had immediately gotten into comfortable clothing.

 

“That’s really not as charming as you think it is,” she made her mouth pout, _just_ slightly. She wasn’t the type to pout—unless she was exchanging comments with Nautica, at which point the pout was dramatic and largely played for humorous purposes—but she felt like playing then.

 

He leaned down onto the bed, one leg thrown across both of hers’. “Yet here you are.”

 

He was bearing down on her until he’d pressed her down against the bed. She braced her foot against the bed—a slightly difficult position—and lifted her thigh to rub against his crotch. He hissed, and she smiled. “Here I am,” she agreed. “You’ve taken me to bed without dinner.”

 

He opened his mouth, and she cut him off with, “Don’t. I really _don’t_ consider that an appropriate pick-up line.”

 

It was his turn to smirk. “But your pinched look of discomfort is worth so much to me.”

 

“You know what else could be pinched?” Her hand slid down his body and it was his turn to wince.

 

“Please don’t. We both appreciate it when _that_ works.”

 

She splayed her hand over his outer thigh and tilted her chin up in a satisfied smile. “That is certain true.”

 

He clearly gave into the impulse, because he then pressed a kiss to the underside of her jaw. She hummed into it and he nipped her playfully. She giggled and tried to yank her chin down, but he refused to move.

 

Wait, he _did_ move—he levered himself until he was lying completely on top of her, and she yelped quietly at the weight. His body rumbled with laughter, and she considered her situation before remembering something she had almost forgotten.

 

Her hands crept upward to his sides, and he narrowed his eyes as she brushed the tips of her fingers along his ribs. “Don’t,” he warned.

 

“Try and stop me.” She dug her fingers in with more fervor, and he muffled his laughter into her shoulder.

 

“Minx.”

 

“You say the sweetest things.”

 

He blew a raspberry into her neck, and she choked. She dug her fingers in more firmly, and he fought with her until he wrapped his hands around her wrists and pinned them. “I think that’s my new nickname for you when you’re being difficult,” he informed her, rising up slightly to look down at her. “But not difficult-difficult.”

 

“What? Minx? You sound very English.”

 

“Perish the thought.” He glanced down at her. “I thought you didn’t want competitive sex as much.”

 

“ _I_ was tickling you. _You_ chose to take it elsewhere.”

 

“I don’t like to be tickled.”

 

“So?”

 

He nudged her cheek with the tip of his nose. “Minx.”

 

Entirely possessed by the spirit of devilry, she craned her neck up and licked a messy line up his cheek. He choked, pushing himself up and away from her, and oh look, he released her wrists to do it.

 

She grinned up at him, her cheeks bright.

 

He stared at her, and her smile started to lose brightness. “What? What is it?”

 

“I’ve never seen you smile like that.”

 

She dropped her eyes, her cheeks brightening further. “Well, I--.”

 

“I’m not complaining.” He kissed the tip of her nose and she giggled slightly. “It was nice, I’d like to see it more.”

 

“Maybe that means I should lick your face more often,” she offered, and he made a face.

 

“ _Please_ no.”

 

“Well. Since you said please.”

 

He sighed and rolled off of her, but before she could ask why, he was curling around her, his head on her chest. “I’ve missed your breasts.”

 

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Thank you, Solus,” she told it. “I finally see my boyfriend in the flesh after a month, and he tells me he misses my _breasts_.”

 

“I could call them--.”

 

“Oh no.”

 

“’My favorite lovers’ pillows.’” He smirked up at her, covering her hip with his hand. Her hands landed on his shoulders and she pushed, but he didn’t budge. “Megatron has a particular love for _1776_.”

 

“How does he feel about _Hamilton?_ ”

 

“He’s taking Optimus to see it in the fall.”

 

Windblade’s hands flexed on his shoulders and he sighed. “More.”

 

She pinched him gently. “More what?”

 

“Pweeeeeassseeeeee,” he blared, and she snorted.

 

“You’re _so_ charming.”

 

“I try.”

 

Her hands started to massage his shoulders, and he relaxed against her. He traced nonsense into her hipbone and up to her waist. “I missed all of you.”

 

She smiled. That was the closest to an apology she was going to get. “I missed all of you too. Are we snuggling tonight?”

 

“I don’t snuggle,” he muttered. “I—I--.”

 

“Cuddle?”

 

“Damnit, woman--.”

 

“It’s okay,” she deliberately made her voice as condescending as possible, “we don’t have to use words that threaten your masculinity.”

 

He batted at her, and she laughed at him. “It’s okay,” she said, still in the condescending voice, “you’re cute and I still like you.”

 

He said something under his breath that she didn’t catch, but she decided she didn’t want to. She relaxed against her bed, and while exhaustion gnawed at her, she didn’t want to throw off her hard-won sleep schedule too much. It was too early for sleeping for the night but too late for a nap. “Don’t fall asleep,” she warned. “It’s too early.”

 

“But it’s so comfortable,” he mumbled, and to her slightly appalled amusement, he rubbed his cheek against her chest.

 

“You haven’t eaten yet,” she told him.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Because you don’t like eating alone.”

 

He propped his chin on his hand and looked at her. “Since when?”

 

She patted the pillow and resettled her head on it. “Just an observation. Every single time you could get away with not eating alone by eating with me or, well, anyone, you did.”

 

Instead of replying, he laid his face down again, and she sighed. “Will you ever give me a straight answer when you don’t like the question?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“You are the _worst_.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t fuck me if I was.”

 

“Don’t make me push you out of bed.”

 

He squeezed her hip. “Fine. No, I haven’t eaten yet, but I have no desire to get up.”

 

“Because you’re comfortable.”

 

“Because _you’re_ comfortable.”

 

“Oh thanks,” she said, but she was smiling.

 

“You’re welcome.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is early, but I'm celebrating the fact that months of work have finally come to fruition, and I finished my applications for graduate school. It's all done, thank the Goddess. If you could send positive thoughts my way, that would be absolutely fantastic.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented last chapter.
> 
> Content warning for alcohol consumption and Risky Business shout-outs.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to [mizzymouse](mizzymouse.tumblr.com) , for reasons that will be elucidated on in the end note.

**CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH STARSCREAM IS INTRODUCED TO THE ~~WONDER~~ HORROR OF HOOCH**

Starscream whistled to himself as he pushed open the door to the International Relations department. He was going to pick up Windblade, they were going to get sandwiches on the way back to Megatron’s house, and then they were going to settle in and watch movies. It would be a quiet night, and it was the first time she was going to spend the night at _his_ house.

 

At least, that was the plan.

 

Windblade was _not_ sitting at her desk when he got in, and he stared at her empty desk before walking to Optimus’ open door. “Where is she?”

 

“Who?” Optimus asked absently.

 

Starscream didn’t stomp his foot, but it was a near thing. “Who _else_ would it be?” _God_ , Optimus.

 

“Oh. Hello, Starscream. You must be looking for Windblade.”

 

“Yes.” Starscream’s voice curled with insolence, and Optimus’ glasses flashed briefly.

 

“I gave her the day off, I needed to prepare a lecture and I find I do that better without an audience. She said something about Skywarp.”

 

“Like what?” Windblade almost never hung out with _just_ Skywarp. He had a suspicion she passively disliked Skywarp, but since her version of passive dislike involved half-genuine smiles and polite conversation, it was easy to miss.

 

“Just that she was planning on seeing him today.”

 

“...ah.” That could mean so many things.

 

“I believe she is home, however,” Optimus said kindly.

 

“Of course she is. Whatever. Later.” He wondered how Optimus would react if he called him ‘Big O’ and resolved to do it the next time they talked. He pulled out his phone and turned on his heel to text Windblade, but when she didn’t answer by the time he got to his car, he called Skywarp.

 

“Skywarp’s phone.”

 

“Thundercracker. Why do you have Skywarp’s phone?” Since when had Thundercracker returned from the Hamptons?

 

“I just collected Skywarp from Windblade’s house,” Thundercracker said, even more cautious than usual. “He’s not in any state to answer his phone.”

 

“What the hell happened?”

 

“Hooch,” Skywarp warbled, loud enough to make Starscream wince. “Hooooooooooch!”

 

“...they drank moonshine.”

 

“Windblade is in marginally better shape,” Thundercracker said.

 

“Define ‘marginal.’”

 

“She was actually standing.”

 

“Holy hell, _how much did they have to drink?!”_

 

“Two,” Skywarp sang. “I have twoooooooo!”

 

“That’s not—he’s not,” Starscream pinched the bridge of his nose before throwing his car in reverse. “Was anyone else home?”

 

“No, it was just them. I came in to find the two of them in awful synch, singing that one song from _Dirty Dancing_.”

 

“Was Skywarp doing the lift,” it wasn’t a question. Skywarp would try.

 

“No. They were just dancing and make weird ass duckfaces at each other.”

 

Windblade never made the duckface. What the hell kind of witchcraft was hooch, anyway? “Goddamnit.”

 

“If Skywarp’s inability to stand is anything to go by, the hangover is going to be a _bitch_. Don’t be mean.”

 

“I don’t tell you how to manage your relationships,” Starscream snarked. “Hanging up now.”

 

“Later.”

 

He drummed his fingers on the wheel. _Had_ he and Windblade discussed their dinner plans? He was certain they had, or maybe he had implied...in any case, Windblade’s home was throwing light onto the minimal lawn as he pulled over to the curb. Chromia’s car was gone—did she deliberately plan to be gone whenever he was going to be over? Probably.

 

Once he was up to the front door, he was disturbed to see that the door was unlocked. He pushed it open and called, “Windblade?”

 

“Star!” Once the door was all the way open, he found Windblade in a very long shirt and no leggings or skirt to speak of, and jealousy flared _sharp_. “You’re here!”

 

She was, however, wearing her typical bright blue fuzzy socks, and she slid down the wooden hallway to ram into him, and he wondered if she really felt the need to act out Risky Business. She wrapped her arms around him and tucked her face against his chest. “It’s good to see you.”

 

He understood every word she was saying, but there was a definite slur. When he looked down, he saw that her eyes were dilated and she _reeked_ of alcohol. “How much did you have to drink?”

 

“One,” she crooned. “Kiss me!”

 

“I don’t think so.” She was leaning up on her tiptoes, and amusement buzzed through him despite himself. “You’re a little too drunk right now.”

 

“I’m not!” She lost her balance and would have fallen over if he hadn’t braced her with a hand on her lower back. “Well, maybe a _little_.” Strange, he’d never picked up how drawling her voice could go. Girl was from Georgia, all right. “But you can still kiss me.”

 

“Seriously, Windblade, how much did you have?”

 

“One,” her lower lip protruded unhappily. “Pleeeeeeassseeeee?”

 

He stooped to pick her up, and she brightened. “Are you carrying me to bed?”

 

“Are you wearing a shirt you don’t mind risking ruin?”

 

“No,” she said happily, curling into his chest. “Why? You gonna tear it off?”

 

He glanced down at the loose black t shirt. “No, I don’t do that.”

 

“Oh, okay. Ummmm....”

 

“Yes, dear?” Impatience made his voice too sharp, and she shrunk back from him slightly.

 

“We’re not going to my room.” _Mah room_. Dear god, how country _was_ Caminus?

 

“No, we’re not.” He nudged the door open to the bathroom and carefully put her down in the tub.

 

“Are we showering together?” He couldn’t read Windblade’s face, but her shoulders were slumped. “Tiny shower.”

 

“We’ll manage. I’m going to get some towels, can you strip for me?”

 

“Okay!” Her shirt sailed past his shoulder.

 

“I’ll be back.” He ducked out of the bathroom and found the linen closet. He would wrap her up in towels after giving her a cold shower. It wouldn’t be enough to sober her up, but it would get the reek of alcohol out of her skin and start her on the process to sobering up. He would follow it up with water and aspirin and tuck her into bed in a blanket burrito.

 

He would lecture her in the morning. He _hated_ it when she got drunk. The experience of tending to her after she’d had several vodka shots in late March had soured him on the entire experience forever.

 

She beamed when he came back to the bathroom. “You’re back!”

 

“I’m back.” The enthusiasm was nice. He wouldn’t deny that much.

 

She made grabby hands at him. “Come joined me,” she said, and he bit off a snort at her grammar.

 

“I don’t think so.” He opened up the cabinet underneath the sink in search of a washcloth, and he was surprised to find a small folding stool and a pitcher. “Windblade, why are those here?”

 

She blinked at them. “Cleaning. Something about cleaning.”

 

“I see.” He unfolded the stool and put it by the edge of the tub. The flash of cold water would shock her, but he decided to relent and let her finish up with warm water. He wasn’t _that_ petty. “Hold on.”

 

“Kay,” she chirped with a beam.

 

She was _so_ happy, and he was finding it hard to believe that the hooch was the cause. Maybe she was genuinely that happy to be around him, and the hooch overcame her natural reserve.

 

Grudgingly, he resolved to rein in some of his more thoughtless moments.

 

He turned the water on cold, and she shrieked and curled up. “Star,” she whimpered.

 

He waited until her hair was entirely damp—and it was down too, which was some _shit_ —before he turned the dial to hot. She uncurled as the water temperature skyrocketed, and she blinked soulful eyes at him. The blueness of her eyes helped. “Why would you do that?” she ran her hands up and down her arms and he found the shampoo.

 

“To help you sober up.”

 

“But I _like_ being drunk,” she pouted.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You don’t like being drunk?”

 

“I don’t like _you_ being drunk.”

 

“Why not?” She closed her eyes as he started to work the shampoo into her hair, and when she gasped slightly he remembered to be gentle. “It’s nice.”

 

“Because you don’t have that middle ground of tipsy,” he ran his fingers down to the nape of her neck, and the whole bathroom smelled like lavender. “You proceed from sober to drunk in .5 seconds.”

 

“Only with h-hooch.”

 

“Then why drink it?”

 

“Everything gets pe—peasa—nice and fuzzy for a while.”

 

“So what you’re saying is,” he rinsed his hands under the spray and pushed the button for the water to come out the tub faucet instead of the showerhead. The cork-thing was already down, so the water would come up around her, “you don’t actually _like_ being stiff all the time.”

 

“M’not tiff all the time,” she protested.

 

“Tiff? What’s that?”

 

She splashed water at him and he sighed over his jeans. “You knows what I mean.”

 

“Your grammar gets wonky. That’s a little endearing.”

 

She looked up at him, her eyes substantially less dilated. “What’s—the real problem?” she was concentrating hard, and her words came out slurred but the grammar was correct.

 

He tugged lightly on her hair and stuck the pitcher under the tub faucet. “I think I prefer you in control of your faculties.”

 

“I’m being safe,” she pointed out. “Home, not driving, not going out.”

 

“True. But I prefer you in control of yourself.”

 

“You should try hooch,” she sighed as he poured the pitcher over her head. She sputtered slightly, but his critical eye picked out soap, and he put the pitcher back under the faucet. She grumbled incoherently at him while she pushed her hair out of her eyes, and he thought with satisfaction that though Skywarp saw her drunk, _he_ saw her grumpy and open.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“9 out of 10 doctors agree, _moonshine is bad for you_.”

 

“Only in excess.”

 

“How much did you have again?”

 

“One,” she chirped.

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And how much is ‘one’?”

 

“One,” she told him.

 

“I—whatever. We’ll talk when you’re coherent.”

 

“I’m co—coho—now I am!”

 

“Right,” he agreed, and with no ceremony, he dumped the next pitcher of water on her. Her reply, such as it was, was lost in an angry burbling, and the pout she turned on him once the water dripped from her face almost made him kiss her.

 

Almost. She was still too drunk for him to feel comfortable about her consent levels.

 

She needed one more dousing before the soap was completely gone, but for the final time he opted for more control, and he poured it over the spots of her hair that were still soapy. She sat in the tub, arms around her knees, while he moved her hair around, and she remained still until he squeezed her shoulders.

 

“All clean?” she asked, that fierce look of concentration still in her eyes. His heart squeezed slightly; she should never have been in the position of needing to concentration to say two monosyllabic words.

 

“Yes. But we’re not done.”

 

She sighed. “Okay.”

 

He found the conditioner and a comb and patiently started to work the conditioner through the ends of her hair. She whimpered low in her throat whenever he hit a knot, but for all of his irritation with her, he kept his hands gentle while he undid it. Lecturing a drunk person wasn’t worth it.

 

“You all right?” He found the pitcher and poured it over her hair, and she tilted her head back to keep the water from running into her face.

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

“You’re not saying anything.”

 

“Should I?” the slur was almost gone from her words, but she would still need to finish a glass of water before he put her to bed.

 

“I got used to you chattering at me.”

 

He could see her eyelashes against her cheek when she blinked. “I don’t chatter,” she said, dropping her hands to sit in the water. She flexed them and he reared back slightly; no more splashing for him.

 

“You chattered at me when I got in.”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“Is that a drunk thing or a hooch thing?”

 

“I’m not sure,” her voice was too thoughtful for her mental state. “I would have to run exp—esp—tests.”

 

“ _No_ you do _not_.”

 

She giggled. “Aw.”

 

“Windblade, I swear to god--.”

 

She turned around and patted his cheek, and water trailed down his chin to his shirt collar. “You’re sweet.”

 

“No.”

 

“No,” she agreed, but her usual smile was peeking out, and he pressed his lips together. “What’s the real pr—problem?”

 

“That’s for tomorrow.” The irritation made him bite off his words more sharply than he should have, and her eyes darkened with worry. “You’re all clean. Stand up.”

 

She fumbled slightly, so in exasperation he put his hands around her upper arms and pulled her up. She shivered in the sudden cold, and he let go of her to drape one of the towels around her shoulders. She tucked it around her more securely before leaning on him to step out of the tub.

 

He’d already draped a towel over the closed toilet seat, and she sat down with no prompting from him whatsoever. They worked together silently to dry her off, and with each inch of skin he rubbed with a towel, he claimed her body one round at a time. By the time he was to her head—massaging her scalp with the towel and getting as much water as possible—her skin was pink and her eyes lidded.

 

_Mine_ , he thought uncharitably.

 

“What’s that face?” she asked, tilting up to look at him. “That’s a ‘get under shelter’ face.”

 

He found her a robe and passed it to her. She tied it and stood up, and he didn’t even need to brace her. “Seriously, what’s wrong?” She reached out to run her fingertips across his forehead, but he stepped out of her range. Her shoulders hunched, and her voice was two tones above silent when she said, “Are you angry with me about this?”

 

He sighed and tugged on the sleeve of the robe. She followed him from the bathroom to the bedroom, and while she hesitated by the door he went searching through her chest of drawers for her pajamas. “A little.”

 

“Are you angry about the drinking or that I did it with Skywarp?”

 

He paused. “I hadn’t thought you and Skywarp were that close.”

 

She shifted from the door to the edge of her bed. “He wanted to try hooch, and I was finally in a good enough mood to open the bottle. It’s not something you drink by yourself unless you’re an alcoholic.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It hits you hard and fast,” she explained. “Even if you dilute it. I really only have good associations with it, but it’s a little like tequila in that getting drunk off hooch isn’t quite like getting drunk off anything else.”

 

“So the other person acts as a safety net?”

 

“Yeah. I’m used to hooch, kind of. I don’t need that much to send me past tipsy. Skywarp thought two in succession would get him to where he wanted to be, but he underestimated how fast it can go. When it was clear he was on the verge of blackout, I called Thundercracker.”

 

“You didn’t stop him?”

 

“I tried,” she shrugged, “but some things you have to discover for yourself.”

 

“We had _plans_ for tonight.”

 

She blinked at him. “We...did? When Optimus told me he didn’t need me today, I checked my messages and email just to make sure I wasn’t throwing anything off.”

 

He frowned. He _thought_ they had made plans. “Maybe it was something I thought we talked about.”

 

“That’s possible.” She yawned. “I thought we were doing something tomorrow night for your birthday.”

 

“Right. Maybe.” He found her softest pajamas and brought them to her. She flushed slightly at the underwear on top, and he turned around while she pulled them on. “I’m going to get you a glass of water and you need to drink all of it before you pass out.”

 

“This isn’t my first time at this particular rodeo,” she said dryly.

 

“Good, then you require no further instruction.” He left the room and she started to pull on the rest of her pajamas. He was all prickly, and she thought with amusement that he was like a hedgehog; in order to get any sort of affection, you had to pet very carefully around the spines.

 

She tucked herself into the blankets, and when he returned with a glass of water, she tucked herself along his side to sip it. “Thank you for taking care of me,” she murmured, _even though you shouldn’t be mad at me for this._ “You didn’t have to.”

 

“I wish you--,” he cut himself off. She wondered if she could be adorable enough to cow him into not lecturing her about having a shot of hooch. “Never mind.”

 

She curled into him and looked up at him through her lashes as she sipped her water. How broadly could she play it without him looking through it? Or maybe, she amended, how endearing could she be so that if he saw through it, he would accept it? It annoyed her that he was placing himself in the ‘moral authority’ position, but it was an annoyance she could communicate more clearly when the haze of insobriety had passed.

 

She giggled once. ‘Haze of insobriety.’ The tail-end of being drunk brought out her formality. “You’re snuggling me,” he observed.

 

“Yes.” He was frowning slightly, but his hand came up around her to settle against her back. “Are you being pacified?”

 

He looked down at her and she tried an angelic smile. From the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, it made him more amused than anything else, but that was okay too. “Go to sleep,” he said finally.

 

“Mmkay,” she tucked her head on her pillow, and if their legs just _happened_ to tangle together, well. It was an accident.

 

\--

 

“Morning,” Nautica yawned as she fiddled with the coffee machine. “She still asleep?”

 

“She’s still sleeping off the hooch, yes.” Disapproval poured off him, and Nautica smothered a giggle before it could escape. “What the hell is _one_?”

 

“One shot.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Hang on, I can explain this.” Nautica went into the small pantry and rooted around until she found the jug of moonshine. “How her mom brews it--.”

 

“Her _mother_ brews it?”

 

“Yeah, the distillery was gifted to her parents when the community formally welcomed them. Her parents didn’t do much with it, or so Windblade said, but her mom loves to experiment with it. Here we go.” She heaved the jug onto the counter, and the moonshine was deceptively clear. “The catch on the top of the jug, the cap? It’s meant to pour into the cap because of the weight of the glass of the jug, and the cap measures out one shot exactly.” She flipped the catch on the cap to show him. “So when she says she had one, that meant--.”

 

“One capful.”

 

“Yeah. So now you’ve seen her with moonshine, what do you think?” Nautica put the jar back and leaned against the counter as the coffeemaker started up with great sound and fury. Probably time to get a new one.

 

“I think I’d like to burn it,” he said, painfully frank, and Nautica laughed.

 

“I can see why you’d feel that way. In any case—not that I’m defending the hooch or anything else—Windblade only has it when she’s happy.”

 

“So?”

 

Nautica indicated the pantry. “That’s the first time she’s opened that bottle since her mother gave it to her three years ago.”

 

“...oh. But what about--?”

 

“The ex? Oh, that was about something else. But when she’s drinking it for herself? Only when she’s happy. So maybe cut her a break.”

 

“Do you all conspire together?” His voice was _very_ dry.

 

“She’s my best friend,” Nautica’s voice matched his. “’Course we’re gonna conspire. Morning, Windy!”

 

“Stop freaking Starscream out,” Windblade yawned as she padded into the kitchen.

 

“But it’s so much _fun_ ,” Nautica beamed at him as Windblade stood up to kiss his cheek before heading for the kettle. “And it keeps him on his toes!”

 

“I stand on my toes just fine,” he told her while keeping an eye on Windblade. She was placing the lid on the teakettle, and while she was moving slowly, there was nothing to indicate she was running on fumes or anything else. “But Windblade’s clearly having problems.”

 

She looked at him over her shoulder. “I am _not_.”

 

“I don’t think he likes the fact that you like hooch,” Nautica said in a stage-whisper.

 

Windblade turned on the stove with a little more force than necessary. “Too bad.”

 

Starscream’s phone buzzed, and he checked it. “We’re invited for dinner.”

 

“Invited or ordered?”

 

“I think you know.”

 

Windblade hid a yawn behind her hand. “Goody.”

 

He put his phone away and watched her make tea, and she tried not to give anything anyway. She hadn’t really taken up Megatron and Optimus on their dinner invitations, but that was largely because she and Optimus had lunch four days out of five, and Megatron wasn’t making her any more comfortable.

 

 “What time do you need to be at Optimus’ office today?” He wandered over to the coffeemaker.

 

“In about an hour and a half,” Windblade frowned at the kettle before getting down the teapot. “If I leave in forty-five minutes, I can bike there with no issue.”

 

“Since we’re doing dinner, I can drop you off. Won’t take longer than twenty minutes, tops.”

 

“I—um--.”

 

“Do it, Windy,” Nautica advised. “It’s already super hot.”

 

Windblade glanced out the window reflexively; sunlight was already soaking into the pavement and glancing off the reflective lights. “Ah--.”

 

“Stop stalling,” Starscream waved his hand dismissively as he put the carafe back onto the heating coil. “Just say yes.”

 

She rolled her eyes at him and pitched her voice to sound as high-pitched and, “Oh, _yes_ , thank you, Starscream! Where would I be without you?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him and Nautica snorted into her coffee.

 

“A sweaty mess,” he said without missing a beat.

 

The kettle started to whistle, and Windblade diverted her attention to making tea. A good thing, too, otherwise she might snap at him and she wasn’t prepared to do that that early in the morning.

 

“So what _are_ you and Big O doing today?” Starscream looked down at his coffee and considered putting some sugar in it. Idly, he discarded the idea.

 

“Big...O.”

 

“He’s a tall guy.”

 

Nautica wrapped her hands around her mug. “With that, I’m leaving, kay thanks _bye_.”

 

“Please call him that,” Windblade said dryly, “preferably while I’m around. I haven’t seen that pinched look of his in a while.”

 

“I could be persuaded to do it tonight.”

 

“How about playing on that sense of humor you persist in saying actually exists?”

 

He crossed the room in three steps, and she glanced up at him as he leaned against the counter. He wasn’t in her space, not yet, but that where it was going to lead, she was sure. “There’s something else you could play.”

 

“At some point, you could totally write a book on terrible pick up lines.”

 

“That occasionally work.”

 

“Only occasionally.”

 

“Is this such--?”

 

“No.”

 

“But--,” he was pouting. _Pouting_.

 

She patted his cheek. “I’m going to have my tea and some toast, and you are going to shower. After we’re both done, you will take me over to campus. Yes?”

 

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she felt a twinge of worry. That was the Scheming face. “Fine.”

 

She leaned against him for a moment, and he let her. Then she shoved him lightly. “Shower. Now.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” he pinched her ass on the way out, and she yelped.

 

Well, maybe that was the only thing he was scheming about.

 

\--

 

_Pstttt_.

 

Windblade glanced at her phone screen when it vibrated on the textbook that she’d rested it on. Optimus was absorbed in his map, so she unlocked the screen and tapped back a quick reply. **_Working, go away_**.

 

The reply was instantaneous. _I’m bored._

 

**_That’s nice. AWAY._ **

_So do I get to see your stockings and garter belt?_

Windblade inhaled at exactly the wrong moment, and Optimus looked to her in concern as she coughed. “Windblade, are you all right?”

 

Her cheeks were flaring, but she hoped she could blame the coughing for that. “M’fine, swallowed the wrong way,” she rasped.

 

“Let me get you some water,” Optimus hurried from the room, and she took the time to shoot off a quick response.

 

**_I AM WORKING_ ** _._

_I know. Do I get to see them?_

 

How the hell did he even know she had— _not the point_. **_ABSOLUTELY NOT_**.

 

_Why are you yelling at me? Just a question._

 

“Here you go,” Optimus returned and placed the cup at her elbow, and she managed a smile at him.

 

“Thank you,” she croaked, embarrassment warring with the residual coughs. She slid her phone into her bag and resolved to ignore it.  Starscream _hated_ to be ignored and would stop when he realized she wasn’t reading his texts anymore.

 

She returned to the newspaper she was translating, and her bag kept buzzing by her foot. After the first few times, it was soothing, and she managed to get her mind back onto her work.

 

She was in the middle of jotting down the basics of the first-draft translation when her phone rang. Optimus looked down at her—he was still standing and he was _very_ tall—and he said, “Is that yours?”

 

She had no memory of changing her ringtone from a basic tone to—she squinted—the _Steven Universe_ theme, and given that her phone was on vibrate, it shouldn’t have been ringing anyway. “I—think so?”

 

He tilted his head at her as she fumbled to bring out her phone. It _was_ Starscream—by Solus, she was going to kill him—and she declined the call. Unfortunately, it meant that she could see all the listed messages he’d been sending her, and her entire face turned a brilliant scarlet.

 

“Everything all right?” Optimus asked, looking at her.

 

“I—er,” she abruptly turned her phone off. “Do you think you could give me a ride? I really don’t want to look at Starscream right now.”

 

“Oh?” Optimus angled toward her slightly, and she rolled her eyes internally. Optimus could say what he liked, but he was a gossipy old hen at heart.

 

“I’m going to kill him,” she said brightly.

 

“Not an uncommon feeling, I can assure you.”

 

“Oh good, glad to know I’m not in the minority. Anyway, you were asking what the newspaper said, and I think I need a little more context.”

 

“What do you need?” Optimus’ gossipy demeanor abruptly changed as he leaned forward.

 

“Newspapers are rarely apolitical, so do you know which side this newspaper sided with? I have some thoughts but I don’t want to say them until I know.”

 

“Well, that newspaper...”

 

By the time three hours had passed, Windblade had abandoned the newspaper to rest her face against the desk. “I’m never getting a Ph.D in history,” she mumbled to the table. “ _Never_.”

 

Optimus laughed. “How about linguistics?”

 

She moved her face so that she could look up at him. “...maybe,” she said, “after my diplomatic career.”

 

“Not a bad plan, I got my Ph.Ds after I finished in the UN.”

 

“Yeah. So.” She glanced at her watch. “Can we please be done for the day? My head feels like I’ve been digging through it with a stick. I am nothing but Google Translate right now.”

 

Optimus smothered a chuckle. “I understand. I can take you home, if you’d like. Or I can take you to my house, so that you don’t need to ask for a ride from someone you’d like to murder.”

 

“Less murderous now,” she admitted, “but still mad. He is just— _ugh_.”

 

“What did he do?”

 

Windblade grumbled and rested her forehead against the desk again. “He didn’t want to recognize boundaries. Again. We’re gonna have to have that conversation. _Again_.”

 

He reached out to pat her shoulder. “I can talk to him, if you want.”

 

“No! I mean, no. He won’t take it seriously if it comes from you.”

 

“That’s true enough,” he sighed. “I’ve never had that kind of influence with him.”

 

“He just--,” she wasn’t sure how much to say, “he’s mad at me, but he doesn’t show it like normal.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He came to my house last night, and I wasn’t expecting it, so I had some hooch.”

 

“Hooch?” Optimus’ eyes lit up. “I haven’t had that in years.”

 

Windblade blinked. “You’ve had hooch?”

 

“Several times, while I was visiting some friends a while ago. I found the taste bracing but I appreciated it as I grew a taste for it. You have some?”

 

“My mother brews it, you could ask her to pass some along.”

 

“You would be all right with that?” He had been surprisingly amenable to her asking for conversational boundaries with her mother.

 

“Yeah, besides, Mother would be flattered.”

 

“That would be all right.” He rested his chin in his hand. “So he was angry about the hooch?”

 

“He was...less than pleased.”

 

“And now he’s taking it out on you with...”

 

“With all due respect,” she said firmly, “I’m not telling you, sir.”

 

He laughed. “You don’t need to. I’m going to use the men’s room, and then why don’t we head out?”

 

She lifted her head up from the desk. “That sounds pretty good.”

 

“Excellent,” he gifted her with one of his rare smiles, and she instinctively smiled back. “Be back.”

 

“Take your time,” she murmured.

 

While he was gone, she retrieved her phone and turned it back on. Her eyes widened when she saw how many text messages were waiting for her, and she opened it with trepidation. Her eyes landed on the last text first, and her cheeks flared with heat.

 

Scrolling back up and reading from the beginning didn’t help. He had _quite_ a lurid narrative going. He was in a position of power—he never directly stated it but she knew he was picturing the Oval Office—and she was in some kind of subordinate position, and he started with an observation about the grey A-line pencil skirt she kept in the back of her closet for interviews and her favorite scarlet button-down blouse.

 

It...didn’t get better from there.

 

“Windblade? Are you ready to go?”

 

She flinched so violently the phone fell out of her hands, but thankfully it landed nowhere near Optimus’ feet. “Er, uh, yes. I am. Are you?”

 

“Just need to get my keys and then I am.” He peered at her, and she felt like he _knew_. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tucked her phone inside her bag. She would blister Starscream’s ears with _such_ a lecture, by Solus.

 

They left, and Windblade distracted herself with how she was going to lecture him. She felt like starting with, “So once again you ignore my boundaries because it doesn’t suit you and this will _not work_.”

 

Such happy thoughts kept her busy all the way through the drive, and Optimus leaned away from her. She didn’t notice, too busy composing fiery speeches that would leave Starscream cowering.

 

\--

 

Windblade was curled against the couch, her skirt draped over her knees, and Starscream examined her from his position in the hall. She was reading one of Optimus’ novels and was twirling the end of her ponytail between her fingers.

 

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but at the angle he was standing, he could see down her neckline just slightly, just enough to see the swells of her breasts, and honestly, she looked fantastic in black.

 

He stepped forward silently—she was mouthing the words as she read, something he found endearing—and laid his hands on her shoulders. She started violently, the book flying out of her hands to land, cover first, on the carpeted floor. “Starscream--,” she said, almost angrily, as she twisted her body to look up at him. “That really wasn’t--.”

 

He leaned down and kissed her, and her hands settled somewhere at his lapels. She bit down on his lip, and he growled approval at the action. When he pulled away, she followed him, just enough, and her blue eyes were dazed before they sharpened. “That was absolutely not--.”

 

“Dinner’s ready,” he interrupted. “Hot food, cold tea, I know your favorites.”

 

She glared at him. “You and I will need to have _words_.”

 

“I look forward to it,” he said, mocking. “Did you enjoy my texts?”

 

She paused in the middle of slithering off the sofa to retrieve the book. “ _No_.”

 

“But I was so...detailed.”

 

He was rewarded by her flush, and he didn’t miss how she shuffled before she bent down to pick up the book and place it on the coffee table. “Not everything needs to be shared, Starscream.”

 

“But I do so cherish honesty.”

 

She snorted, and he smirked. “Let’s be real,” she murmured as she passed him, moving her hips _just_ so. “If you were in the Oval Office, there is no way—absolutely _no way_ —I would ever be your secretary.” She reached up and patted him on the cheek. “First lady or nothing, sweetheart.” She went down the hall to the stairs, and it took him a moment to follow after.

 

He had _not_ been expecting that.

 

He managed to catch up halfway down the stairs, and he reached for her. She neatly sidestepped him—when had she learned to predict him?—and braced her shoulders as she entered the dining room.

 

By the time they were sitting, he was sitting across from her and she looked slightly smug—which, for her, meant that she had tucked a small smile into her cheek and she blinked guilelessly at him from time to time. He supposed she had forgotten he had long legs, but he made sure she remembered about a fourth through the meal.

 

Her cheeks turned bright red and stayed that way.

 

Optimus and Megatron, absorbed in discussing current electoral politics that he occasionally commented on, didn’t seem to notice how Windblade was shifting in her seat, but by the end of the meal and it was time to clear the plates, Windblade jumped to her feet and assisted Megatron with the dishes.

 

Starscream watched her go with a slight smirk.

 

“That was inappropriate,” Optimus fussed at him.

 

“What was?” He asked, deliberately innocent.

 

Optimus Looked at him, and Starscream knew he wasn’t fooled. “Stop bothering her through dinner,” he said at last.

 

“But after dinner is fair game?”

 

Optimus looked like he’d really like to hit him, actually, and Starscream stood up to get out of range. “Windblade, wanna go to the bakery a few neighborhoods over?” he called. “We’ll bring back dessert, promise.”

 

“It’s not a bad walk, now that the temperature is a little more comfortable,” Megatron replied absently, ducking his head around the kitchen entrance. “Go on, you two.”

 

Windblade, on the other side of the kitchen, made a strange noise. He would have called it a yelp if it hadn’t ben so low in her throat. Optimus rested his eyes on him, and said, “I’m not certain--.”

 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Megatron steamrolled over Optimus’ protests—as usual—and he turned to Windblade. “They have wonderful cupcakes.”

 

Windblade’s eyes turned to him, and she seemed unsure. He, admittedly, had deliberately been making her life difficult, but that didn’t mean they were incapable of going to the bakery. Finally she sighed. “All right,” she mumbled.

 

“Excellent, we’ll expect you back,” Megatron’s eyes were sharp, and Starscream rolled his eyes as Windblade dried off her hands.

 

“Yes _dad_. Windblade, you ready?”

 

“As I’ll ever be,” she murmured as she passed him. He let her go first, appreciating how her shoes had just a bit of a heel and what they did for her calves, and once he closed the door behind him, she tapped her foot. “Well? Where is it?”

 

He pointed. “That way.”

 

She started off in that direction, walking faster than she would normally be comfortable with, but he was six inches taller than she was, and a fast walk for her was an amble for him. “So.”

 

Her eyes flicked to him and then away. “So.”

 

“You’re not going to yell at me.”

 

“Of course not.” She was biting off her words, and he bristled. “We’re in _public_. I won’t do you or me the dishonor.”

 

“...dishonor.”

 

“Me, for losing it in public, and _you_ , for humiliating you as such.”

 

“This is ridiculous,” he told her, his voice sharp. She flinched slightly, but he pressed on. “Just _say_ it, damn you.”

 

She locked her jaw and continued to walk.

 

“Damnit, Windblade--,” he reached out for her, and she whirled on him. He hadn’t quite seen that level of venom in her eyes before, and it shook him, briefly. How badly had he miscalculated?

 

“We are in _public_ ,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Don’t touch me.” She raked her fingers through her hair and then spat, “I’m not talking to you.”

 

“That’s mature.”

 

He saw her nostrils flare, and for a moment he thought she would respond, but then she exhaled and walked on. He trailed after her as a surprisingly selfless decision to give her some space, but it did give him some amusement when she hesitated at the next major street before turning right. “Other way,” he called after her, and she paused just enough to make it clear she still wasn’t listening to him, but then she took the left.

 

He’d never seen her petty before. It amused him.

 

The bakery’s activity was beginning to dial down—they closed in an hour—but someone jumped to as soon as they entered. As they started their spiel, Windblade stopped at the glass case and tilted her head to listen, but when he went to stand next to her, she neatly sidestepped him so that he couldn’t brush up against her.

 

Her pettiness wasn’t as charming then. How could he coax her out of her bad mood if she wouldn’t let him touch her?

 

His running internal monologue—she was taking this _way_ out of proportion, why can’t he want to mess with her, good _god_ —occupied him through ordering cupcakes and taking the box back to Megatron’s, and she held a box of her own—carefully, and he’d never paid as much attention to her hands before—but then they were back and Optimus was looking at them and he _knew_.

 

Megatron probably also knew, but he was more amused than anything else. Optimus was Concerned. He looked at Windblade, whose smile wasn’t genuine as she offered the box, and then he glared at Starscream.

 

_Why is it always_ my _fault, anyway?_

 

“Productive trip?” Megatron drawled as he took the box from Windblade.

 

“Oh yes,” she chirped.

 

She _still_ didn’t look at him.

 

He was past irritation and into genuine, if frustrated anger, and he wanted nothing more than to pin her down onto a surface and make her _look_ at him, and he took half a step forward, but he was derailed by Megatron, who said, “Why don’t you two take that box and head back to your place?”

 

“Mega--.”

 

“You see, I have _plans_.”

 

Starscream was halted in his vaguely-inneundo-laced tracks and he twisted his face in disgust reflexively. _Ew, no_. Windblade mirrored his expression for half a second before her features smoothed into neutrality. “Er, um--.”

 

“Starscream’s more than capable of taking you home.”

 

Optimus looked uncomfortable. “Maybe--.”

 

“It’s his birthday,” Megatron sounding anything approaching _sweet_ was highly suspicious. “Let them go off and be,” _now_ Megatron winced, “young.”

 

“That is an excellent plan,” Starscream agreed, moving his eyes over to Windblade, who looked even more uncomfortable. Her eyes met his briefly, but she dropped them almost immediately. “Come on.”

 

She opened her mouth and the room tensed, but then she closed it, defeated, and everyone relaxed. Had she refused to go with him, he had no doubt, Optimus would have backed her 110%. “I’ll see you later,” she told Optimus as she pulled her bag over her shoulder.

 

“Let me know you got home all right.” Optimus shot a look at Starscream, and he wondered what made him seem so untrustworthy that Windblade needed to _check in_.

 

“But take your time,” Megatron tacked on.

 

It was Megatron’s turn to be the recipient of a Look, and he rolled his eyes at Starscream in commiseration. Windblade cleared her throat politely and checked her phone. “Um, I don’t mean to be a bother--.”

 

“Let’s get going,” Starscream told her, long-suffering. “You _really_ do not want to be around for what they do next.”

 

Her face twisted in dismay, and Megatron coughed to hide his laughter while Optimus looked at the floor in disappointment that it hadn’t opened up and swallowed him yet. The floor, not immune to the disappointed look Optimus had crafted so carefully, almost appeared paler under the incandescent lighting.

 

Windblade steeled herself and went toward the door. Starscream ambled after her, and while she could have walked a little faster to get to his car, she would not put it past him to wait to unlock until he was right at the doors. She could always trust his pettiness, she thought sourly, aware of his gaze on her back like a physical thing.

 

They were silent in the car until they left the street Megatron’s house was on, and then he looked at her as he waited at a stoplight. “Are you done being a child now?”

 

“ _You_ are asking _me_ that?” Indignation curled her voice into something more vicious than she intended, and his mouth tightened in response.

 

“I honestly don’t see what the problem is, it’s not like we haven’t--.”

 

“You don’t even—oh Solus, so we have to start from the beginning. Number one. _I don’t like doing_...things... _in public_.”

 

“It was a text, it wasn’t like I was fondling you or anything.”

 

“Please never use the word fondle again. And you sent me those texts when you _knew_ I was working, and you know I get flustered easily!”

 

“I do,” he remarked. “I like it.”

 

She groaned and rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I have my own life outside of you, you’re just a part of it.”

 

“A very nice part of it,” he leered.

 

“Stop that! I’m trying to have a discussion with you!”

 

“Really? It feels like you’re just looking for enough rope to hang me with.”

 

There was a beat. “That’s not funny,” she said at last. “Wrong context.”

 

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Okay. So you don’t like public, but that doesn’t mean--.”

 

“No matter what you joke, Optimus is not my father, he’s my boss, and it’s beyond inappropriate for you to send me sexts when you know I’m working with him. I would be just as angry if you sent them to me in class. I have a specific barrier between personal and professional, and I need you to respect that.”

 

_Or else_ went unsaid.

 

“I just wanted to mess with you,” he said, injured.

 

“There are other ways!” Annnnd the headache was back. “Like sending me terrible science puns or something.”

 

“I never stoop to the level of _puns_.”

 

“You _know_ what I mean, Starscream.”

 

He parked the car on the curb and she immediately got out, but to her consternation he followed, just close enough that she couldn’t close the door without hitting him, which, while attractive, would have been far ruder than she was comfortable with. Nautica was in the middle of going back to her room with a bowl full of ice cream, but when she saw Windblade’s face she backtracked. “Um, Windy, me and Chromia are gonna go get ice cream. Like. Right now. Later, Screamer!”

 

“Nautica--.”

 

“Bye,” Chromia hollered, and Windblade stamped her foot.

 

“You two shouldn’t--.”

 

“Nope!” Nautica sang out, and the door closed with finality behind them.

 

“So apparently they don’t want to be around.” Starscream leaned against a doorframe and she briefly wanted to hit him. There should be _laws_ against how smug he looked. “Do they know something I don’t?”

 

“They could write whole _books_ of things they know that you don’t,” she snarked, too impatient to hold her tongue any longer. “Starting with that they respect me more than you do!”

 

His eyes darkened. “That’s not entirely fair.”

 

“Oh, isn’t it?” She started to count it off on her fingers. “They know when to text me certain kind of things, they don’t embarrass me publicly, oh and _they respect my boundaries_!”

 

“Why is that barrier between personal and professional such a big deal anyway?” he demanded.

 

She gave him a look. “My _mother_ is basically a pastor. Do the math.”

 

“Your behavior here isn’t reflecting on anyone but you,” he pointed out.

 

“ _You_ try living in a fishbowl for eighteen years and see how well you adjust outside of it. Besides, I want to be a diplomat, remember? My personal feelings don’t matter there.”

 

He frowned slightly. “But they _do_.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you recognize that,” she said.

 

He considered her for a moment, and then his face lit up with a smirk, and she tensed reflexively. “So what you’re saying is...no to exhibitionism.”

 

She stared at him, and his smirk lightened into a grin. She snorted, turning away from him to put the cupcakes on the counter. She felt him come up behind her—he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her against him—and her knees wobbled when he kissed behind her ear. “I won’t do it while you’re working again,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, and she grabbed the edge of the counter for balance. “But I like you irritated with me.”

 

Then he bit her earlobe gently and her knees collapsed. She heard him chuckle, and she managed to eke out, “You just—need to--.”

 

“You’re easy to please,” he commented, bending down slightly to scoop her up into his arms. She smacked at his shoulder, and in response he threw her over his shoulder. She squeaked in outrage when he squeezed her ass, and he laughed at her. “Do you have my birthday presents?”

 

She promptly stopped wriggling. “Er—yes.”

 

He picked up on that hesitation, but misread the reason for it. “I _was_ joking about the stockings and garters, but you actually bought some, that would be...” he trailed off suggestively, and his hand massaged her thigh.

 

There was still some residual irritation with him, and she decided that two could play the messing game. “Oh,” she said breathily, “it’s not _exactly_ that.”

 

He perked up, just as she hoped he would. “Really? It’s something...more?”

 

She grinned to herself as he nudged the door open with his foot. “You could say that.”

 

Normally, he would drop her on the bed, but he was so excited he just put her down instead, and she was going to hold that over his head until the end of time. “Closet, box wrapped with ivory paper,” she directed as she lay down on the bed and toed off her heels. Optimus had never made it a requirement that she show up for work in her usual type of attire, only with heels, but he came to work in button-down shirts and ties, and she was uncomfortably aware that she reflected professionalism onto him whenever someone stopped by to talk to him. It was too hot in June to wear tights or hose, and she wiggled her toes in the bright blue half-socks. Ankle socks? What _was_ the name for the socks that covered your toes and your sole, but couldn’t be seen in heels and flats?

 

She would think of it later.

 

Starscream pranced over to her and sat down on the floor. She rolled over and braced her chin with her hand, and he was almost humming as he carefully lifted up the edges of the paper. “It’s a thin box, so it must be something small,” he said absently, and she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

 

“Open it and see.”

 

Starscream was bouncing a little as he removed the lid from the box and rifled through the tissue. He saw the glimmer of scarlet lamé and froze, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. He lifted out the g-string, and horror rolled off him as he realized _it wasn’t for her_.

 

“You—you--.”

 

“You said to get something nice,” she said, her voice as innocent as she could manage when laughter kept threatening to erupt. “I thought you’d appreciate equal opportunity.”

 

“That’s--.”

 

“Kind, isn’t it? I thought you might think so. There’s another one underneath it.”

 

In horrified fascination, he moved aside the other tissue paper to find the second thong—only that one was designed to look like a tuxedo. A tuxedo for the penis.

 

She lost it at that thought, and she rolled over onto her back in gales of laughter. He turned to look at her, his face full of unintended comic betrayal, and she hooted with laughter.

 

“Windblade—”

 

“Your _face!_ ”

 

“Windblade—”

 

She couldn’t lay on her back and laugh the way she did; she rolled back onto her side and flipped into silent laughter, her eyes watering. He was glaring at her, but there were sparks of amusement of his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous if you think I’m going to wear this,” he informed her.

 

She finally caught her breath. “But you would have expected me to wear similar...clothing,” she reminded him. “Turnabout’s fair play, Star.”

 

His eyes turned thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

 

“Well, do.” She sat upright and daubed at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

 

“Your voice breaks in the middle. That’s cute.”

 

“I’m so glad you think so,” she snorted, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. He moved his head at the last minute to kiss her back, and his hand slid into her hair to hold her there while he deepened the kiss.

 

She pulled away, and he let her. “So literally nothing could stop your boner.”

 

“It’s my birthday,” he said, mock-bashfully.

 

She giggled again,  mirth having not _entirely_ left her. “You don’t pull off innocent very well.”

 

“You pull it off well enough,” he groused. “Move over.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

His mouth ticked up into half a smirk. “I could always make you.”

 

She made a face at him. “Any excuse to get your hands on me?”

 

“You give me too little credit.” He pushed himself upright and onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t _need_ an excuse.” He threw a leg over her waist and levered himself onto her before she could roll away from him. “See?”

 

“I let you,” she told him.

 

He grinned. “Maybe.”

 

There had been too much time without kisses, and she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him down. He followed, his face softening in a way she rarely saw. Maybe that was their weird juxtaposition—he was rarely gentle, and she rarely laughed. She wondered what that said about them.

 

He distracted her in her favorite way—largely by kissing her until she forgot everything but the details of his lips. His bottom lip was chapped, he must have been biting it during research again. Then he turned his attention to sucking on her bottom lip, and her train of thought derailed entirely.

 

She was dimly aware of pushing his shirt up and off him, and he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She arched her back to bring her buttons a little closer to his hands, and then her blouse was draped down her arms. They worked together to pull it out from her, and then she laid back down against the bed and pulled him with her.

 

He kept his hands away from her breasts—covered as they were with her camisole and bra, it wouldn’t have done much for either of them—and she had her arms wrapped loosely around his back. She nipped at his lip, and he mumbled incoherently. She smiled, running her hands down his back and rubbed the small of his back. He made a strange noise, his back jerking under her hands, and she pulled away from him. “What was that?”

 

“It felt good,” he muttered. “Do it again.”

 

She raised her eyebrows and did so, and he repeated that strange noise. After a moment, she concluded he was _purring_ and she was back to being amused. She dragged her fingers against the small of his back and he muffled his noise against her neck, and then it was her turn to purr as he scraped his teeth against her pulse.

 

It was the longest they’d ever just...kissed. It wasn’t like they were unused to foreplay—Starscream, damn him, was very good at it—but _just_ kissing almost never happened.

 

It was nice.

 

“That’s nice,” she sighed when he kissed his way up to her earlobe. Her breath hitched when he took her earlobe in between his teeth, and she ran the tips of her nails against his skin.

 

“I want to try something,” his voice was unnaturally quiet, and she tilted her head to look at him. “It’ll be a little awkward, but I think we’ll both like it.”

 

“What do you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.

 

“I want you on your knees and your face on a pillow so it--.” He made a gesture, but she didn’t need it.

 

“That’s kind of degrading,” she said as softly as she could manage. She had never really liked doggy style.

 

“I think it’ll feel really amazing.” He was watching her so carefully, and his hands had stilled. It was more respect than he usually gave her. “Just once?”

 

“If I say no or stop--.”

 

“I’ll stop. Immediately.”

 

She swallowed. “Okay.” He was more comfortable with going down on her than she knew most guys were; doing something he wanted with the full knowledge that he would stop if it got to be too much wasn’t that much of a hardship.

 

He pulled her on her ear slightly. “I’m not sending you to your death.”

 

“I didn’t think you--,” he cut her off by kissing her neck, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he mapped the area between her pulse point and her ear with that attention to detail that marked his dedication in the lab.

 

Her knees were feeling loose. It was really unfair how easily he could managed that, especially with how much he irritated her on a given basis. She told him that petulantly, and he nipped her neck before chuckling. “ _Why_ do you think I learned how to do that?” he told her in that rasp that always made her stomach flip over. “Had to give people some reason to keep me around.”

 

She had to think through that for a second, and when she opened her mouth to reply, he took that as an invitation to kiss her. She furrowed her eyebrows at him but then he was doing that thing with his tongue and all snarky comments about his sex life as a teenager and up flew out the window.

 

She started to push off her socks when—“Liners!” she announced, pulling away from to stare at the bright blue socks lying forlornly at the end of the bed.

 

He blinked at her. “What?”

 

“The type of socks that I’m wearing. They’re _liners_.”

 

“...okay.”

 

She beamed at him. “It was bothering me.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

He was so nonplussed that she giggled once, and then, _just_ watch his eyes change, she stripped off the camisole and tossed it in the direction of the hamper. All of her shirts that were worn under her button-downs had thick straps; he had no idea her bra was red. As he took in the detailing—a few rhinestones tucked among embroideries in thin black thread—his mouth parted. “I thought you said you couldn’t have pretty and functional,” he blurted.

 

She shrugged. “I was surprised.”

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” he said fervently, and then he was on her, his mouth at her collarbones while he struggled with the catch of the bra. So despite all his experience—she arched when his mouth found the hollow of her throat—he struggled with bra clasps. That was good to know. She could use it to keep him humble.

 

“Would you like some assistance?” she inquired as her fingers quested for his lower back again.

 

“No,” he grunted, and she felt it when one clasp was undone. He made a noise of triumph—not too dissimilar to how he sounded when he came, actually—and undid the other clasp once he understood how it went. The bra flew across the room in a flash of scarlet—it miraculously landed in the hamper and if he planned that, she would _happily_ go down on him—and then he went at her breasts like...

 

She didn’t feel the need to finish the sentence.

 

He was a little too eager once he had her nipple in his mouth, and she hissed when her nipple caught on the edge of his teeth. He soothed it with his tongue, which didn’t make the initial flare of pain ease off, but it did feel good after that flare passed.

 

She had both hands down his pants, and she raked her nails—such as they were—over his ass, and unlike that weird purring-chirp thing that she was pretty sure only cheetahs could mimic, he groaned.

 

Of course he got off on pain. _Of course_.

 

“Would you like,” her voice was breaking, “me to do that again?”

 

“Sweetheart,” he sighed against her breast, “you can do whatever the hell you like.”

 

She dug her nails into his ass and _squeezed_ , and he groaned again. He was grinding his crotch on her thigh, and if she found loose threads in her skirt later, she was going to kill him. It was from Talbots, and she couldn’t afford to replace it. “Pants should be off,” she bit out.

 

“Feel free.”

 

He wasn’t wearing a belt, and unlike his issues with her bra, she had his pants unbuttoned and unzipped in about three seconds flat. She was going to mock him later. They worked together to get his pants and boxer-briefs off, and then she found the zipper on the side of her skirt and that went off too.

 

He hesitated. “We may want some lube.”

 

She was turned on—their kissing sessions usually did that—but she understood his issue. “It’s in the drawer under the bed.”

 

“I didn’t know you had some,” he said as he clambered over her to find the drawer.

 

“You’re about to be really surprised,” she said dryly.

 

“I don’t—oh.”

 

She looked at him while he looked at her three sex toys in their plastic bags. “One was a gift from Pyra for my high school graduation, one was from Chromia two years ago, and I bought one.”

 

“When?”

 

“I had a little extra cash and I thought that getting a vibrating dildo would be like the best thing ever.”

 

“I want to watch you with it at some point,” he decided, but he grabbed a condom and the bottle of lube and closed the drawer. “It might help to brace yourself against a pillow,” he advised as he perched himself on his heels.

 

She wouldn’t ever say that she wasn’t nervous, but as he turned her over and helped her with the position, the fact that she had her ass in the air and he was running his hands up and down her sides helped a lot. Neither of them were angry, which probably also made a difference, but she was still grateful for the closed door.

 

She rested her cheek on the mattress as she watched him tear open the condom package. “You think we’ll ever be at the point where we don’t need those?”

 

He paused. “That’s an odd way to tell me you’re okay with being pregnant.”

 

Her face twisted. “Oh, _god_ no. I have an IUD. And since we’ve been together, it’s not like I’ve slept around with anyone else so...”

 

He shrugged. “I’d still wait a little longer.”

 

“Just a thought.” She shrugged in response, which...probably looked weird from her current position. “Isn’t it some kind of relationship milestone?”

 

“I wouldn’t know.” His condom was on, and he reached for the bottle of lube. “The only person I’ve ever been unsafe with was Skyfire, and that was only when dick-sucking was involved.”

 

She had to stop to think about that. Skyfire wasn’t her type—and he was very quiet about it, but she had absolutely no doubt that he was 100% gay—but she could see Starscream on his knees, going at Skyfire’s dick the way he went at her cunt, and it was hotter than it had a right to be. “Ah.”

 

“Let me guess, _you’ve_ never been unsafe.”

 

“My ex-girlfriend and I never used protection, it didn’t occur to me,” she needed to switch over to resting on the other cheek. Her face was starting to hurt. “Which tells you something about the kind of sex education I got, I guess.”

 

“Well,” he said in that way that came across as cutting but she knew he meant it as teasing, “you _did_ grow up in Georgia.”

 

He moved forward and lined his dick up—something that always made her want to laugh, honestly, dicks were _so strange_ —and she muffled a gasp when he thrust into her. His hands were on her hips, but not tight, and he bit out, “You could spread your legs a little.”

 

She wasn’t sure how much she believed him, but she edged her knees apart as he leaned forward and then— _oh_.

 

“That’s why,” he laughed, pulling out and pushing back in. “I thought you’d— _oh god_ —like that.”

 

She reached for another pillow to muffle her noises into, but he leaned over her to hold onto it. “I want to hear you. No one else is around, it’s okay.”

 

She breathed in deeply. “Okay.”

 

While they’d never had bad sex—she still got tingles thinking about the time he basically went down on her for an _hour_ —she’d never had penetrative sex that didn’t need her clit to get her off. This, however? This is something else entirely. She’d never entirely _dis_ believed in the idea of the g-spot, but...

 

He hit it again and she saw _stars_.

 

By the time he was done—and she felt kind of woozy because she’d lost count of how many times she’d come—her legs were trembling and he had to help unfold them onto the bed. He moved away from her—she made a small noise approximating that she would really like him to come back—and when he returned, condom-less, he brushed the tips of his fingers against her cheek and they came back wet. “You cried.”

 

“Did I?” she said in wonder.

 

“Well, they watered.” He climbed over her—it was charitable of him not to roll her over to the other side of the bed—and draped himself against her back. The slight stickiness from sweat and lube would chill in the air from the fan in roughly ten minutes, but for the moment she was all right with both the lack of clothes and sheets. “You were okay with that?”

 

“Still a little degrading,” she admitted. “When I’ve seen it before, there’s usually spanking involved.” He didn’t take up the obvious gauntlet of her roundabout admittance that she had watched porn, and instead traced his fingers over her hip. “But I get why it’s used now. That felt...” Words fell short.

 

“I get it.” He found her hand and laced their fingers together. He was touchier than she was, but he showed it at different times. One day she would sit down and wonder why that was. “Go to sleep. You’re not making a lot of sense.”

 

“I make _perfect_ sense,” she protested, but sleep sounded like a good plan, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, about the lingerie.
> 
> [mizzymouse](mizzymouse.tumblr.com) and I were discussing this part of the story one day, and they were like 'have her get him some male lingerie...AS REVENGE.' and I was like 'that's FANTASTIC.' So I started to look it up, and I mean, I found some really lovely stuff, like A+ fashion people.
> 
> And then I found [this](http://www.lingeriediva.com/mens-thongs-bikinis/red-liquid-metal-thong). And I went 'THAT'S FUCKING PERFECT.' However, I needed one more, so I found [this](http://www.lingeriediva.com/mens-thongs-bikinis/mens-tuxedo-posing-strap) also, and I cackled and cackled to myself as I wrote it. 
> 
> If you really enjoyed that part, please let me know so I can tell my best friend that despite the fact that this is NOT their fandom, they do really well. Also, they helped me prep for my grad apps and read over my writing sample (which was also about Transformers, btw), so any extra kudos y'all are willing to send their way would be just wonderful.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Solstice and Merry Christmas, y'all! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented last chapter.
> 
> In this chapter, there's the return of the sex demon conversation, and I had more fun writing it than perhaps I should have.
> 
> Trigger warning for ableism.

**CHAPTER THREE: IN WHICH OUTSIDE PERSPECTIVES MIGHT BE HELPFUL**

 

Perceptor’s phone went off at exactly the wrong moment.

 

For someone who wasn’t as invested their science as he was, that might’ve meant during sleep, or while using the water closet, or worst case scenario, _while having sex_ , but Perceptor was working on a chemistry lab and had arrived at the titration part, and when his phone went off unexpectedly (Brainstorm had hacked his phone and set his ringtone as _‘Single Ladies’_ and Percy hadn’t gotten his revenge yet but he _would_ ), he messed up with titration and his solution turned a brilliant purple.

 

Frustrated, he picked up the phone and growled, “ _What_.”

 

Skyfire, on the other end, was unfazed. “You wanna do dinner with the wonder duo tonight?”

 

Percy had to stop to think about that. Wonder duo...so many of his friends could count as that. Then he had to think about who _Skyfire_ could call the ‘wonder duo’ and it clicked. “Starscream is actually considering having dinner with the two of us.”

 

“Only if Windblade comes. I’m ordering from the good Chinese place.”

 

Windblade was an agreeable person to be around. “That’s fine. What time would you like me home?”

 

“Any time before sundown,” Skyfire said, gently teasing.

 

“But I thought you _liked_ coming to get me.” Skyfire liked to tease, and while Percy was quiet as a general rule, he could tease back.

 

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Skyfire’s voice had the lilt of amusement to it, and Percy could listen to it for hours. “But I don’t think the houseguests would appreciate me carrying you in while you’re unconscious.”

 

Percy took a moment to picture that—Starscream would screech something and Windblade would immediately jump up to help—and decided it wasn’t worth it. “Fine, I will make my way back to the flat before they arrive.”

 

“Thanks, Percy.”

 

“You’d better make it up to me.”

 

“Make up what?”

 

“You called me at exactly the _wrong_ time for titration.”

 

He could hear Skyfire wince. “I will definitely make it up to you.”

 

“Good.” Percy waited a beat. They had been together for a year, but they hadn’t said ‘I love you’ yet. Skyfire was the type to say it reflexively over the phone at the end of a conversation, but it hadn’t happened yet.

 

“See you tonight.”

 

“You too.”

 

\--

 

Percy did manage to make it back home two hours before sunset. He had missed his flat while abroad; he could have attended anywhere in the UK, but he wanted to work for NASA. The Americans were going to Mars. The UK was just headed for hell.

 

David Cameron fucked a dead _pig_ , for crying out loud.

 

His flat was a typical student apartment, and in the back of his mind he dreamed of a flat with wooden floors and large windows, but for the moment he made do with one-bedroom apartment that had vaguely green carpet and a dishwasher. Skyfire was staying with him over the summer as an intermediate step for the two of them to see if they wanted to live together, but it appeared that they might choose to do so.

 

Skyfire hadn’t come back from the take-out place yet, so Percy dropped off his laptop and went to the kitchen to see what kind of wine was in the fridge. There was a white wine that would probably pair well with chicken; he somehow doubted Windblade was the type to like red wine.

 

He was in the process of putting out paper plates when Skyfire came in, his arms full of bags. “They were running a special tonight, so I got enough for lunch and dinner tomorrow.”

 

“That’s fine. What’s their ETA?”

 

“Not too far. Apparently they were both working on campus today, so we should expect them in the next ten minutes or so.”

 

“What was Starscream working on?”

 

“Consolidating data. He’ll be in a foul mood unless Windblade manages to talk him out of it.” Skyfire pulled a face. “I _do not want to know_.”

 

“Vaginas are not the source of the Black Lagoon,” Percy said idly.

 

“That’s not—why would—now I have the mental image of Windblade as a succubus.”

 

“If there’s anyone who is a sex demon in that relationship, it is not the daughter of a pastor.”

 

“I don’t know, maybe that’s the person who is _most_ likely to be a sex demon.”

 

Percy eyed Skyfire, but there was a quiet knock—that would be Windblade, Starscream was incapable of doing anything quietly—and Skyfire went to the door as Percy got down the wineglasses. There was a burble of conversation, and then Windblade came around the corner with a bag. “Starscream informed me we were going to dinner only this afternoon, so I didn’t have time to pick up anything but dessert, I’m sorry,” she said with a small smile. “It’s chocolate cake, is that all right?”

 

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I wasn’t expecting you to pick up anything, so this is a pleasant surprise.”

 

“I’m Southern,” she replied with a hint of humor. “If you’re invited somewhere for dinner and _don’t_ bring anything, it’s a terrible insult.”

 

“It sounds like it.”

 

“Feuds have begun over that lack of respect and persisted for generations.” Her voice was solemn, but he appreciated how her eyes flickered.

 

“I _highly_ doubt the likes of the Hatfields and the McCoys fought over something as banal as not bringing something over for dinner,” Starscream drawled as Windblade put the cake in the fridge.

 

“I believe alcohol was involved there somehow,” Percy observed, and Windblade grinned for a moment before she straightened. “That still counts as food, technically. It’s ingested.”

 

“Apparently certain kinds of beer are thick enough they count as food, calorie-wise,” Starscream looked considering and Windblade squeezed his hip as she passed him.

 

“No beer for me, thanks.”

 

“No, you just drink hooch and occasionally vodka.” From the way Starscream’s eyes cut to Windblade and the way she shifted, there was a story there.

 

“Is Chardonnay acceptable, or--?”

 

“I’ll take a glass,” Windblade said, grateful. “I might not finish it, but I’ll take one.”

 

“Starscream?”

 

“He only occasionally drinks scotch,” Skyfire said, unaware of the tension in the kitchen as he returned from locking the front door. “And even then he doesn’t drink much.”

 

Starscream’s eyes glinted, and Windblade edged away from him slightly. “Perceptor, I’ll take a glass.”

 

Skyfire’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Windblade took a step toward Perceptor. “Can I put anything on the table?”

 

“Paper plates,” he said, offering the pile to her. “I’ll take the food.”

 

“Percy--.”

 

“There’s not enough room in your arms for the food _and_ this ridiculous tension,” Percy informed him. “Fight about it, or don’t, but Windblade and I will eat while the food is hot.”

 

Skyfire looked a little hurt, something Percy would regret later, but not when Starscream looked like he was ready to go in for the kill. Once Percy and Windblade cleared the room for the dining room at the end of the narrow hallway, Windblade turned to him and said, “So I wasn’t the only one picking up on that.”

 

“Indeed not. I’ve found that with Skyfire, it’s no good to expect him to pick up the nuances when it’s something he doesn’t want to think about. The residual tension between him and Starscream is one of those. Which, speaking of, am I mistaken in thinking that there is tension between you and Skyfire?”

 

“Just a little,” she snorted, looking for the first time since he’d met her slightly impatient. “He and I...have said some unkind things to each other in the past.”

 

“ _You_ were unkind.”

 

“I’m capable,” she raised her eyebrows and passed him a plate. He passed back the chicken noodle dish in response. “If you’re comparing it with Starscream-level of unkindness, then it looks positively friendly, but by my standards, it was a few shades shy of vicious.”

 

“That, I can believe.” He looked her over. “Do I need to lock _you_ and Skyfire in a room?”

 

“I’m Southern, he’s...not. The only way that would work for the two of us is if you have the expectation someone’s going to come out bleeding.” Windblade shrugged as she picked through the noodles for the green beans. “We’ll right ourselves in time.”

 

Percy thought through that, and then he shrugged. “Fair enough. Can I have the pork?”

 

Skyfire and Starscream appeared, Skyfire a little shame-faced and Starscream’s eyes too bright. “We’re good now,” Skyfire drooped.

 

“Thank god for that,” Percy said tartly, and he saw Windblade smother a chuckle by taking a large bite of chicken. Starscream was used to that level of...discretion from her, and as Starscream sat down next to her, Windblade straightened like he’d pinched her or something as he sat down.

 

Percy looked at Starscream from the corner of his eyes. Maybe not _pinch_.

 

Despite the earlier hiccup, dinner passed smoothly. Skyfire and Starscream talked easily, referencing in-jokes they’d had for several years, and Windblade listened. She didn’t appear to be jealous, something Percy admired. It said a lot about their relationship, no matter what Skyfire fretted.

 

True to her word, Windblade sipped at her wine but didn’t finish it before the meal was over. Starscream barely touched his. By the time the table was cleared, Skyfire and Starscream had decided to go up onto the roof—Percy suspected they needed to talk a few things out—and Percy went to find the deck of playing cards. “Are you all right with rummy?”

 

“I’m good with it,” Windblade shrugged. “So those two do astrophysics, Nautica does quantum experiments, Brainstorm does whatever he think will make a good explosion,” he grinned, “so what do you focus on?”

 

“Officially, my major is chemical engineering with a minor in inorganic chemistry, but I’m developing my work to work in the field of astrochemistry. That’s how Skyfire and I met, actually. We were both attending a lecture by a NASA researcher, and our advisor put us in contact with each other for carpool purposes.”

 

“Fascinating,” Windblade took the deck and started to shuffle. “I’m guessing that chemistry works differently in different atmospheres and pressures, so what works here doesn’t work elsewhere.”

 

“The closest equivalent on this planet would be volcanic chemistry,” Percy took the deck to deal. “The heat and the pressure can cause reactions that wouldn’t happen under quote-endquote ‘normal’ circumstances. I thought about minoring in volcanology and getting my postgraduate degree in it, but I’d much rather look to the stars.”

 

“You and Skyfire have that in common, then.”

 

“He has this idea of training military pilots to be astronauts, not because he wants the military up there—reas communis—but because they’d have the skill to fly through the asteroid belt that separates the inner planets from the outer.”

 

“Reas communis, community space.” Windblade checked her cards and picked up one. “It describes territory that can’t be used for colonization or military purposes. Antarctica also qualifies, I believe.”

 

“That’s the next place I’d like to get at to study,” Percy put down a card and picked up a new one. “Just to vary the experience. I want to see how the poles affect chemistry at that level.”

 

“The more survey data you posses, the more hypotheses you can make?” Windblade selected an ace of spades, and Percy frowned. He needed that card.

 

“Precisely.”

 

“I’m guessing also that your chosen approach to chemistry is going to be more relevant as climate change progresses.”

 

“I do like to keep an eye on the future,” he said modestly, and she smiled.

 

“So you wanna go up into the black?”

 

“It would be nice. You could too, you know. If that one planet with the weird superstructures is actually aliens, a linguist would be useful.”

 

She shivered slightly. “As attractive as being a Starfleet officer is—and it is—I think I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. Metaphorically.”

 

He appreciated her sense of humor; it was as wry as his. He wondered why she and Skyfire didn’t get on—his sense of humor was what caught Skyfire’s attention in the first place. “So you’re saying that if the starship _Enterprise_ suddenly showed up because it felt a need to save the whales, you _wouldn’t_ go along with it?”

 

“I’d join any mission to save the whales,” she demurred. “Whales are worth saving.”

 

“I’m glad we agree.”

 

They smiled at each other, and he had the wish to know her better, outside of Starscream. Even at that moment, her eyes were flickering to the stairs as if she expected Starscream down at any minute, and he thought about if she modulated her behavior while Starscream was around—like she intentionally made herself _more_ reserved to counterbalance his behavior.

 

It wouldn’t surprise him, honestly.

 

“What’s—Skyfire like when Starscream’s not around? I’ve only talked to him once when Starscream wasn’t, well, around, and Starscream was the topic of conversation.”

 

So maybe there was some jealousy, after all. “He’s...quiet. He has a gentle sense of humor, something I don’t think Starscream ever appreciated, and he’s very...caring. I’ve never felt quite so taken care of until we started dating.”

 

She covered a smile, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. “He makes sure you go to bed?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

The door to the roof opened, and they both straightened as Starscream led Skyfire back downstairs. Both of them were sweating, as it was still hot outside. “Light pollution,” Starscream snarked as he flopped into a chair next to Windblade. “We couldn’t get a decent visual.” The look he turned on Perceptor proclaimed that Starscream considered that _his_ fault.

 

“You two will get your chances to be manly men of the woods again,” Windblade said as she reached over to pat Starscream’s arm. “Just maybe after the weather turns.”

 

Skyfire pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, but Perceptor saw it and _knew_. “You’re not fond of the temperatures?”

 

“I’m not fond of the billows of stench that precede Starscream when he comes home from spending the night in the woods while the weather’s still warm.”

 

It was Windblade’s turn to earn a scowl from Starscream, but she merely blinked innocently at him. “I _never_ have billows.”

 

“You’re right, my mistake. The proper term would be _gales_.”

 

“You--?”

 

“Cake?” Percy interrupted.

 

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Skyfire jumped up. “I’ll help you.”

 

Cutting and serving cake, by all accounts, didn’t really need two people, but Percy was grateful for the assistance as Windblade and Starscream bickered. It never dipped into outright maliciousness, but Skyfire looked uncomfortable anyway. “What’s the problem?” Percy asked quietly as he loaded plates and Skyfire found the forks.

 

“I’m not sure,” and _there_ was the undertone of bitterness that Percy had been expecting. “It’s just that—I don’t get how they _work_.”

 

“With lots of work, I expect. Neither of them seem particularly capable of excellent communication.”

 

Skyfire snorted, and the darkness from his eyes disappeared. “Yeah, probably.”

 

When they returned to the tiny dining room, Starscream was saying something quietly and Windblade was listening intently. She wasn’t blushing, so it clearly wasn’t dirty, but Starscream stopped once he saw them. “She made me stop for cake,” he complained, draping himself over the back of his chair.

 

Windblade rolled her eyes. “ _I_ was perfectly okay with going to Publix. _He’s_ the one who decided on Trader Joe’s.”

 

“He’s pretentious like that,” Skyfire shrugged, and she laughed and nudged Starscream. Starscream pouted comically, but Percy saw how his eyes flickered between Skyfire and Windblade.

 

If some slight slagging on his dignity meant that those two were getting along, Starscream would allow it.

 

Percy sipped his wine as Windblade and Skyfire teamed up to tease Starscream and honestly thought Skyfire had nothing to worry about.

 

\--

 

Nautica sailed through the hallway on her socks, and she giggled when she nearly hit the wall. “Be careful,” Windblade called through her open door. “I just put down wax this morning.”

 

“I _know_.” Nautica twirled around. “Like you haven’t been dying to do that all day?”

 

Windblade looked over her shoulder at her with a shy smile. “I may have already.”

 

Nautica looked her up and down and walked in. “Stockings _and_ a garter belt? Fancy.”

 

“Starscream is taking me on a _date_ tonight, and I’m freaking out,” Windblade said in the ‘I’m so carefully controlled you’d never think I was freaking out on the inside’ voice.

 

Chromia had that voice too.

 

“So that means tights and garters. Are you even going to wear a slip?”

 

“I thought about it,” Windblade said absently as she checked her stockings. “But he hinted he would take me dancing and slips would be weird.”

 

“He’s taking you dancing?” Nautica goggled at her before beaming. “He _does_ know you.”

 

“He thinks he does. I’m going to need some help with the zipper.” Windblade went over to the closet and brought out the dress she’d bought with Nautica. It was in her color, but the cut of the dress was something that Windblade would _never_ have picked out, but Nautica had asked with the sweet smile that Windblade could never say no to.

 

Windblade had fallen in love with it. It had a deep V neck, and the top wrapped around her breasts before falling into a flared skirt. The sleeves were loose and stopped just above her elbow, and while Nautica had had visions of Windblade wearing tall leather boots with it—the skirt stopped at her knees—she knew Windblade would _never_ get her dominatrix on like that.

 

Windblade turned her back on Nautica, and Nautica started to move the zipper up. “What do you mean, he thinks he knows you? It’s not like you’re a serial killer and you’re hiding bodies in the woods.”

 

“Oh, god no.” Windblade held perfectly still as the zipper glided to the top. “I’m morbid tonight, don’t mind me.”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, I just—I don’t know. Dates mean this matters.”

 

“Ah, your crippling fear of commitment strikes again,” Nautica rolled her eyes. “That’s what he doesn’t know, isn’t it? That you’re terrified of making promises you’re not sure if you can keep?”

 

“I don’t feel the urge to run,” Windblade contradicted, but she turned around with a look on her face that Nautica couldn’t understand. “But I just...I’m afraid.”

 

“Afraid of...what, exactly? That he’s the worst? He might be, but not to you. That you love him? Is that bad?” Nautica sighed. At some point, Windblade should _really_ go into therapy. “What’s the worst case scenario?”

 

“That I throw away my future for him.”

 

“So the boogeyman from this spring shows their ugly face again.”

 

“Never really...went away, but I could push it away, and then I told him that we’d never gone on a date, and he just...”

 

“Took the challenge.”

 

“Yeah.” Windblade looked so lost. “What happens if I’m in love with him?”

 

“Then you’re in love with him. Being in love is wonderful.”

 

“It’s just--.”

 

“Starscream’s here!” Chromia hollered, and Windblade’s eyes changed.

 

“I have to go.”

 

“Windy--.”

 

Windblade kissed her cheek and found her heels. “We’ll talk later, okay? I have a date.” Her eyes sparkled, and maybe that was even real.

 

Nautica followed her out, and when Starscream saw her through the screen door—of _course_ Chromia wouldn’t let him in—his jaw started to drop before he remembered they had an audience. “You ready?”

 

“Yep,” Windblade’s smile looked real, but alarm bells rang in Nautica’s head anyway. “Don’t wait up, girls.”

 

Nautica snorted while Chromia hissed, “As _if_.”

 

Starscream gave Windblade a smirk; well, he called it a smirk, but Nautica would have called it a smile on anyone else. “You’re gonna like this.”

 

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

 

They watched the two of them leave, and Chromia threw her hands up in the air. “What does she even see in him, anyway?”

 

The knot in Nautica’s stomach solidified. “You might not have to deal with him much longer.”

 

“What? What does that mean?”

 

“I think she’s looking for an exit strategy.”

 

Chromia straightened. “Legit reason, or her usual?”

 

“Her usual,” Nautica sighed.

 

“She really needs to get over that.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I still don’t know how she’s held onto us.”

 

“We’re not a threat,” Nautica shrugged. “She would never be asked to choose between us and her future, but she thinks someone she loves like that would.”

 

“He would.”

 

“I’m not comfortable saying that yet.” Nautica draped her arms around Chromia’s waist. “I’m thinking Roommate Intervention?”

 

“Let’s wait until she brings home a buttload of mint cookies, and _then_ we’ll do that.”

 

“Oooooh, it’s been so long since she broke up with someone I forgot about the mint cookies, yes.” Chromia’s shoulders were set, but she tangled their fingers together. Nautica leaned her cheek between Chromia’s shoulder blades. “Why do you think she’s like that?”

 

“I blame her mom. You know that she never told her about her dad?”

 

“I don’t know about that one,” Nautica disagreed, letting her go to go perch on the couch. Chromia followed. “I don’t think it’s ever bothered Windblade, but I think her mom’s the reason.”

 

“What’s your line of logic?”

 

“I still can’t over that her mom declared her legally emancipated. I mean, I know it guaranteed her financial aid package, but just...it makes me so mad. Her mom was so angry about her deciding not to go to seminary, and Windblade was crying so hard, it just felt so petty.”

 

“So basically her mom rejecting her set her up for being unable to make that kind of commitment for anyone else...” Chromia inclined her head. “I see it.”

 

“She never wants to hurt anyone as badly as she hurt in that moment. She called me, _sobbing_ , and I took my mom’s car to pick her up and I’ve never seen her in such a wreck. _Never_.”

 

Chromia patted her lap, and Nautica laid down. “Our lives do not revolve around our roommate.”

 

“Yeah, but her life is more dramatic than ours.”

 

“I don’t think I want her drama.”

 

“ _She_ doesn’t want her drama. Okay. Why don’t you take me dancing?”

 

“Because we’re both horrible at it and you hate clubs because it’s too many people in a small space.”

 

“Right.” Nautica closed her eyes as Chromia started to play with her hair. “We could dance at home, and laugh at each other.”

 

“We do that already.”

 

“But...” Nautica whined playfully, and Chromia’s body quivered with silent laughter.

 

“Fine, but not tonight.”

 

“Okaaaaaay.”

 

“Stop pouting,” Chromia flicked her nose. “If I find something not Neil Degrasse Tyson on Hulu, will you watch?”

 

“I will accept Minority Report,” Nautica decided.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Besides, you’re playing with my hair, and that has a 50/50 chance of us either making out or me falling asleep.”

 

Chromia looked down at her, and she reached over for a pillow. “Head up, love.”

 

“Sleep it is! Okay.” Nautica pulled the throw blanket over herself. “Hey, Chromia...”

 

“Yes, Nautica?” Chromia pulled lightly on her hair.

 

“If you were searching for an exit, you’d talk to me first, right?”

 

“If it ever gets to the point where I feel like I need one, we will definitely talk about it.” Chromia brushed a kiss on her forehead. “And I wouldn’t put anyone in the middle of it, either.”

 

“Good. I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

\--

 

Optimus stared at his computer screen. The words were starting to blur, and it was probably time for him to go home, but he needed to finish that one section, he needed to turn in to the _American Journal of International Law_ in three weeks and he was only partially done.

 

“Windy! Wind—oh hi, Professor Prime.”

 

Optimus looked up to see Windblade’s roommate, the one who was fond of purple. “Er--.”

 

“Nautica,” she said with a smile.

 

“Right. Hello, Nautica.”

 

“Where’s Windblade?”

 

“Restroom, I believe.”

 

“Oh. Do you mind if I wait?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Nautica peered at him. “When was the last time you had some water?”

 

Amusement buzzed. “A few hours ago. What gave it away?”

 

“Windblade gets the same wrinkle between her brows.”

 

“If you wouldn’t mind, there are water bottles in the fridge in the kitchenette.”

 

“Okay!”

 

Nautica hummed to herself as she left the common area, and Optimus abandoned the idea that he would get any further work done. He saved the document and rubbed his temples, and then he heard the door open. “Nautica!”

 

That...was not Windblade.

 

“Hi Screamer,” Nautica said cheerfully, and Optimus wondered what comic gods had decided to reorder his life for the day. “Windy’s out for the moment.”

 

“I figured. Hello, Big O.”

 

Optimus stared at Starscream, and Nautica choked. “I beg your pardon.”

 

“Begged for but _never_ given.”

 

Optimus’ eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room dropped. Good, he could still manage that. “Do not _ever_ call me that again.”

 

Starscream was saved from death by eye daggers by Windblade opening the door. She saw all the players and Optimus’ glare, and she immediately turned around to leave.

 

“Wait, Windy—”

 

“Windblade--.”

 

“ _I_ am going home, you two need to find alternate ways to get there.”

 

“But--,” Nautica and Starscream stared at each other in surprise, and Windblade waved at Optimus.

 

“Night, Optimus!”

 

“Good night, Windblade,” he said, that buzz of amusement stronger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Windy, wait--,” Nautica went after her and Starscream glared at Optimus.

 

“You could have stopped her.”

 

“Perhaps,” he grabbed the bottle of water and unscrewed the top. “But you did call me Big O, so consider the favor returned.”

 

Starscream’s eyes shot open, and Optimus _savored_ it. He was so rarely caught off guard, it was a delight when it happened. “See you on Sunday for dinner,” Optimus added when Starscream had nothing to say. “I believe we’ll be grilling; that’s appropriate for the July 4 th weekend, is it not?”

 

Starscream blinked. “Er—okay.”

 

“Good _bye_ , Starscream.”

 

Starscream went.

 

\--

 

Megatron thanked Optimus for the glass of iced chai with a nod as he flipped the burgers over. Optimus looked just a little wild, his hair standing on end, and Megatron knew that meant that Optimus was dying on the inside.

 

“The wonder duo are eating you alive?”

 

“I’m perfectly fine.”

 

“Yeah, you only say that when it’s the opposite. Tell Starscream I need his help.”

 

Optimus went, and within five minutes Starscream was standing next to him. “What do you need?”

 

“Stop tweaking Optimus’ tail,” Megatron ordered him. “Pissing him off isn’t your Sunday entertainment.”

 

“But it’s so much _fun_.”

 

“Stop fighting with my partner.”

 

“If you insist.”

 

Starscream watched him work on grilled vegetables for a while, and then he said, “How did you know when--.”

 

“Know what?”

 

Starscream clearly wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, which was interesting. He hadn’t thought about what he was saying, and he only did that when—Megatron considered him. “When Optimus told me about Ariel, that’s when I knew. It was something that caused him so much pain, I could see it. If she does turn out to be alive, I don’t think he’ll ever forgive her, which is saying something.”

 

“Since he’s basically Jesus.”

 

“Since he’s basically Jesus. He’d kept it a secret—her actions and his pain—for so long, and I thought that he would stab himself with a fork several times during the dinner he told me. So that’s when I knew.”

 

“It took Optimus nearly harming himself for you to know?”

 

“That he trusted me enough to show me that,” Megatron clarified. “What was yours?”

 

“I don’t think I’ve had it yet,” Starscream shifted from foot to foot and put his hands in his pockets. “Nothing like—ah yes, this is the direct moment I can pinpoint and bring up in the decades to come to embarrass her in front of our friend group.”

 

“But you’ve had _something_.”

 

“It’s—god, this is cheesy.”

 

“It doesn’t get any better,” Megatron said wisely. “My stomach still flips when I wake up next to him and he smiles at me. Embrace the cheesy.”

 

“Did you—oh my fucking god.”

 

Still, Starscream was standing straight again, and his anxious movements had smoothed out, so all was clearly right with the world. “We went dancing,” he said abruptly. “A few nights ago. At that one place, just outside--.”

 

“I know it.”

 

“It was like a combination of a ballroom dance class and an open floor, and the teacher was, like, _the_ gayest man I’ve ever met, and he was demonstrating the right way to drop someone, because apparently you can do a lot of damage if you don’t get it right.” Starscream’s hair was growing past the half inch he usually allowed it, and he tugged at it. “And she just...let me. Drop her, I mean. And her eyes are so expressive most of the time, it’s why it pisses me off so bad when she just closes off, because then I don’t have any fucking clue, but anyway she looks up at me and she doesn’t say a damn thing, but I know that she’s trusting me not to hurt her. Which is a huge fucking responsibility!”

 

You never had to wait long, with Starscream. As soon as he figured you were all right to listen, everything just spilled out of his mouth. He would make a terrible prosecutor.

 

“You’ve hurt anyone you’ve ever loved,” Megatron observed.

 

“Which doesn’t bother me, most of the time. It’s going to happen, everyone’s going to step on something they didn’t know about, but as long as you make up for it, it’s okay. But I’ve hurt her already, and she still _trusts me_. That’s...”

 

“You have no idea how to deal with that.”

 

“None! If she was a guy--.”

 

“If she was Skyfire,” Megatron said, _sotto voce_.

 

Starscream ignored him, “We would have done the cocksucking thing and it would be done. But she’s a girl, and that’s not how they work.”

 

“How gender essentialist of you,” Megatron patted him on the shoulder. “I have no answers for you, you have to figure them out for yourself. Now go tell those two that food is ready before it burns to a crisp.”

 

Starscream left while Megatron moved the burgers, chicken, and vegetables on the platter. Optimus didn’t care for how thick burgers could be, and he and his TA were similar in that they preferred chicken.

 

Ridiculous, the pair of them. They were suited.

 

He brought the platter over, and Windblade hung back as Starscream surged forward, and if that wasn’t a perfect metaphor for their relationship, Megatron wasn’t sure _what_ was.

 

It got interesting when Starscream turned to Windblade and pushed the plate of hamburger at her. “Here.”

 

“Starscream, I don’t really--.”

 

“You’ve been looking too pale, ergo red meat. Eat some.”

 

“I could make a joke here,” Megatron muttered to Optimus.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Optimus said from the corner of his mouth.

 

“I dislike beef,” Windblade protested. “I’d really rather have some chicken, actually.”

 

“Your anemia--.”

 

“Is mine. Mine to take care of and watch, not you. I don’t like beef, and I don’t eat a lot of pork, so I take plenty of iron supplements and eat other iron-rich food. Eating that burger will make me nauseous. Would you like me to be nauseous, Starscream? If so, I will aim for _you_.”

 

Starscream took two quick steps back, but his eyes narrowed. “I read up on anemia, you know.”

 

“It’s a chronic illness that can be treated,” Windblade yawned. “No cure, but _manageable_. It could be a hell of a lot worse. Stop mom-ing me.”

 

“ _Someone_ has to.”

 

“And that someone is not you.” Windblade looked over at Megatron. “Can I have the platter, please?”

 

Optimus and Megatron exchanged a quick look, and Megatron passed the platter with no further comment.

 

\--

 

“You want to start the countdown?”

 

“Countdown to what?” Optimus yanked his shirt over his head and put it in the hamper.

 

“To when those two implode.”

 

“I thought you thought they were stable.”

 

“Until she snapped at him,” Megatron turned the blankets down.

 

“It’s _her_ chronic illness,” Optimus pointed out as he unbuttoned his jeans and kicked them off. “She’s managed it for twenty-two years.”

 

“They’ve been together since April, and it is now July. It’s approaching his record with Skyfire.”

 

“For what?”

 

“How long he can last.”

 

Optimus stuck his head out of the closet to glare at Megatron. “Stop. He was encroaching a boundary, she was enforcing it.”

 

“They’ve been dating for four months!” Megatron threw his journal article aside. “And they’ve known each other for almost a year. When it comes to taking care of her, he’s allowed!”

 

“When she _lets_ him. It’s her decision, not his.”

 

“The only thing that I find more disturbing about this,” Megatron commented as he picked up his journal, “is that they’re probably fighting about it the same way we are.”

 

“Who do you think will win?” Optimus pulled his sleep shirt over his head and found his pajama pants.

 

“I think that depends on who ends up on top.”

 

With a sigh, Optimus dropped the pajama pants. “There are better ways to invite me to bed,” he complained as he walked into the bedroom.

 

Megatron was already rooting through the bedside table drawer. “Sure there are, but this is plenty fun, don’t you think?” He waggled the bottle of lube up at Optimus, and Optimus reached for him with a growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reas communis: the legal concept that a space belongs to the community. Space and Antartica have been legally classified as reas communis, meaning that the military can't go up there, that governments can't claim colonies, and the only people who have the right to go there are scientists. In case anyone was wondering, that's why the moon colonies (for anything but science) are not legally allowed to exist.
> 
> So basically, fuck you Newt Gringrich. I'm not bitter. Or anything.
> 
> My knowledge in International Law has actually caused issues with how I handle things. Oh man, if you really want to know how much Intl Law has ruined my life, ask me about the debate on space elevators sometime.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious trigger warnings here for gun violence, hospitals, discussion of injuries, and emotional compartmentalization. Nothing's explicit--it's discusssed more than shown onscreen--but if that's an issue for you, it's just a quick head's up.
> 
> Another trigger warning for 'benevolent' ableism and attempting to manage someone's illness without their consent. 
> 
> There's a Leverage reference, have fun!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been commenting, I'm super grateful. Comments are like air to writers.

**CHAPTER FOUR** : **IN WHICH SOMETHING AWFUL HAPPENS**

 

Windblade hid a yawn as she took the kettle from the stove to pour the hot water into her mug. The teabag bobbed in the stream of water, and she left it to go hunt down some honey. That would be breakfast with two pieces of toast.

 

It was going to be an easy day. She had the day off from work—both jobs—and while she had homework to do, she could just relax. Nautica was still asleep, but she would up in about an hour or so, and then they could have some real food. The sun was burning off the haze outside quickly as it rose—it was going to be hot—and she made a mental note to check the thermostat.

 

The toast was crumbs and there were only dregs left in her mug when Nautica padded out of the bedroom. “Morning,” Nautica yawned, her hair all over the place.

 

“Morning,” Windblade looked up from her homework. “How was your sleep?”

 

“Pretty good. I had a dream where I programmed the dinosaurs differently in _Jurassic World_ and nobody died.”

 

“If anyone ever asks me what a power fantasy looks like for you, I will say computer programming, dinosaurs, and saving lives,” Windblade said solemnly.

 

Nautica reached out to flick her on the forehead. “Do you really want me to say what _your_ power fantasies are?”

 

Windblade flushed. “That’s—not necessary.”

 

“Oh, I think it is.” Nautica’s smile was almost viciously gleeful. “Imagine, you, standing between the leader of the free world and the leader of China. They both look to _you_ before they take pens to sign the treaty you crafted. That’s _your_ power fantasy. You may not want to be up front and center, but you want to be a mover and shaker in the room.”

 

“That was unnecessary,” Windblade whined. “Yours was cute, mine just sounds--.”

 

“Badass?” Nautica leaned against her and picked up her mug. “’Cause it sounds plenty badass. I can’t think of anyone more suited for that kind of badass.” She made a face after she sipped what was left. “Ugh, cold _and_ slimy.”

 

“You can make a fresh pot,” Windblade said. “And yours is plenty badass. I would trust you with dinosaurs any time.”

 

“ _This_ is why we are best friends and why we will rule the world when we graduate,” Nautica decided. “Ladies supporting ladies is how the world will get changed.”

 

“I approve of this plan,” Windblade said as she got up. “Excellent plan. Ladies, all the time.”

 

“That’s not a power fantasy, that’s a _sex_ fantasy.”

 

“Not for you,” Windblade reminded her. “How long did it take for you to realize you were attracted to Chromia, again?”

 

“ _Way_ too long,” Nautica poked the tea kettle. “You know...I didn’t think I could be attracted to people.”

 

“Until Chromia?”

 

“Not exactly. But let’s save the story of Nautica’s sexual awakening the next time we drink together.”

 

“Okay.” Windblade stretched. “I’m going to get dressed, okay?”

 

Nautica’s phone shrilled, and she put aside the tea kettle to go find it. Windblade rolled her shoulders as she went to her room, and she stopped with her hand on the door when Nautica gasped. She looked at her, and Nautica’s eyes were full of panic. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I don’t—hang on, _what_ happened?”

 

Windblade tightened her hand on the door. Nautica was growing more and more panicked, and Windblade could feel her emotions slipping away into an ironclad box.

 

“I’ll be there shortly.” Nautica ended the call and fumbled to sit down. “Chromia’s in the hospital, they won’t give me any more details, but we can go and I have the doctor’s name--.”

 

“Write it down, get dressed, and pull a grab bag together,” Windblade ordered. “I’ll get dressed and call a cab, and by the time they’re here, we’ll be ready to go.”

 

Nautica nodded, but she didn’t get up. Windblade strode over to her and hauled her upright. “Write it down, get dressed, and get a grab bag together. _Go_.”

 

Nautica went.

 

Windblade found a cab company and dialed it, and once they confirmed that they were on the way, she got dressed and found her emergency cash, hidden behind one of her photo albums on her bookshelf.

 

“...Windblade?” Nautica’s voice had never been so small, and Windblade felt her heart break. She’d run through the unexpected hospital visits—usually she _was_ the unexpected hospital visit—but Nautica hadn’t. “What do I put in the grab bag?”

 

“One change of clothes, two pairs of underwear and socks, your toothbrush and deodorant, your insurance card and ID, and phone and tablet chargers. Bring underwear and socks for Chromia, too.” Windblade forced a smile. “Don’t think zebras, Nautica, okay? She was at work, but you just know she’s at the hospital, right?”

 

“R-right.”

 

“So that could mean lots of things. Don’t think the worst yet.”

 

“O-okay.”

 

“Go get dressed.” Windblade kissed Nautica’s forehead. “Horses, not zebras.”

 

“Right. Horses. We’re thinking horses.” Nautica breathed out raggedly. “I’m gonna go get ready.”

 

“Do that.” Windblade squeezed her hand and went to her closet. “Comfy clothes, okay? We could be sitting for a while.”

 

“Right.”

 

Windblade found a pair of sweatpants and her softest black shirt. She rarely wore her sneakers, but she sat down on the bed to lace them on. Her own worry was a constant edge in the back of her head, but she had to be strong for Nautica. Chromia was her friend, but not her _girlfriend_. She could put away the worry.

 

By the time Nautica had managed to button up her jeans and pull together the grab bag, the cab was waiting and they were off to the local hospital. Windblade paid the cab and Nautica was walking quickly—not quite a run—and she vibrated next to Windblade as they went to the nurse’s station. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Chromia--.”

 

“Oh, the GSW.” The nurse looked between them. “Next of kin?”

 

Nautica cleared her throat. “I am. I’m her next of kin, it’s in her paperwork.”

 

“ID?”

 

Nautica supplied it, and the nurse looked it over. “Be seated, I’ll make sure a resident comes talk to you.”

 

They sat down, and Nautica nudged her. “GSW? Doesn’t that mean--.”

 

“Yes. But don’t think the worst case scenario. Horses, not zebras.”

 

Nautica breathed out raggedly. “Horses. Right.”

 

“You might want to read. We could be here for a while.”

 

Nautica leaned against her. “You think I can concentrate?”

 

“No, but try. Sitting here fretting is only going to make everything worse.”

 

“Okay, Windy.” The pressure on Windblade’s heart lightened slightly. If Nautica was calling her Windy, then it was going to be okay. It _had_ to be okay.

 

Windblade let Nautica lean against her while Nautica played some kind of game on her tablet. It was brightly colored and had high-pitched little _dings!_ as Nautica progressed, and normally it would annoy the hell out of her, but she started counting breaths in response to the _dings!_ and it worked.

 

Then someone in that weird coat with the ties at the lapels was standing there, calling for Nautica, and they both fell out of their seats—Nautica literally fell over, and if the situation hadn’t been so grave, Windblade would have teased her gently for it—but Windblade steadied her and they went to the person in the weird coat.

 

“Are you Chromia’s--.”

 

“Yes, and it’s okay to talk in front of Windblade.”

 

“Okay.” The doctor steeled herself. “Chromia is stable, at the moment, but she’s still in surgery.”

 

“Er—how long has she been in surgery?” Nautica asked anxiously.

 

“For about two hours, but the damage is still being explored. But the important thing is that she’s stable.”

 

Nautica nodded. “I, um—actually--,” her color changed to grey, “nearest bathroom?”

 

The doctor pointed. “That way.

 

Once Nautica disappeared into the bathroom, Windblade turned back to the doctor. “What _happened_?”

 

The doctor shifted. “The bullet entered underneath her arm, where it hit her rib and ricocheted into her abdomen. Her current surgical team involves cardiothoracic, orthopedic, and general surgeons. She’s stable—I’m not lying—but we’re looking at a few more hours of work. I’d get comfortable.”

 

“Thanks,” Windblade said tonelessly. The doctor nodded and went down the hall, and Windblade felt the tears rising in her throat. She swallowed hard, and then Nautica came out of the restroom and wiped her mouth.

 

“I need some water.”

 

“I think there’s one around the nurse’s station and down,” Windblade pointed, and Nautica went. It gave her an idea, and she found her phone and dialed Percy. The tears started rising again, and she swallowed as Percy picked up. “P-Percy, hi, it’s--.”

 

“I do have caller ID,” he interrupted, but he was gentle about it. “What do you need?”

 

Tears were leaking out of her eyes, the traitors. She daubed at them and checked for Nautica—she hadn’t returned yet. “Chromia’s in the hospital, and we’re w-waiting for news,” she wiped at the inner corners of her eyes, “so could you c-collect Brainstorm and bring your latest log-gistical puzzle to dis-distract her?”

 

“Of course. Would you like me to call Starscream?”

 

Her first instinct was to say _no_ —he had never shown any particular sensitivity for these kinds of situations, but then she reconsidered. “Y-yes please.” She saw Nautica coming back and she swallowed, putting away the tears. “As soon as possible, please.”

 

“We’ll be there soon. Hold on.”

 

“Thanks, Percy.” She hung up and turned back to Nautica. “So the doctor said we could be here a while longer, so I c-called Percy and he’s going to bring Brainstorm by, all right?” She dearly hoped Nautica hadn’t caught her voice breaking, and Nautica perked up a bit.

 

“Oh, is that okay?”

 

“They’re coming,” Windblade said more firmly. “We won’t be alone.”

 

“Good.” Nautica raked her fingers through her hair. “What else did the doctor say?”

 

“Just that...” Windblade swallowed, “she’s stable but they still have plenty of work to do.”

 

“Okay.” Nautica peered at her. “You holding up okay?”

 

Windblade tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m doing okay. I trust her doctors.”

 

“All right. If you trust them...I trust them.”

 

Windblade badly needed a hug, but if she hugged Nautica, she would start to cry and then Nautica would cry and it would be a big crying fest and no one needed that. Instead, she stood upright and set her shoulders. “Let’s go sit until they arrive, okay?”

 

“Sounds good.” Nautica managed a slightly-watery smile. “I’m...gonna go sit.”

 

“I think I’ll get some water of my own.”

 

“It’s not too far.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Once Windblade managed to find the water dispenser, she waited a moment to catch her breath. Not too long, because then Nautica would be suspicious, but just a moment. It could be explained away by a line or a nurse asking her questions; never the real reason.

 

By the time Windblade came back out, Perceptor had arrived with Brainstorm in tow, and Windblade sat down next to them. Brainstorm had already co-opted a side table and had butcher paper on it. The three of them were arguing over the basic equation—it went entirely over Windblade’s head—and while stress lines were still showing around Nautica’s eyes, her shoulders weren’t as tight anymore.

 

“Starscream’s on his way, but I caught him at a bad time,” Perceptor said quietly when Brainstorm quizzed Nautica on the relative morality of creating some kind of identifier weapon thing. “He’ll be a bit.”

 

“That’s okay. When he gets here, can you say I went up to the nursery?” Windblade tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t want a gremlin of my own, but they’re cute to look at.”

 

“Not unlike puppies,” Perceptor’s voice was _very_ dry. “I believe it’s the fourth floor. I’ll be sure to tell him when he gets in.”

 

She wasn’t sure where the impulse came from, but she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thanks. And—thanks for coming. Seriously.”

 

“It’s nothing. You can call me up for us to just get a cup of coffee.”

 

Despite the clear period at the end of the sentence, Windblade could hear the unspoken question. “I’ll do that. We can create the ‘talk shit about our boyfriends’ club.”

 

“Oh good _god_.” Perceptor was smiling slightly, and he brushed her arm with his. “That sounds like it deserves alcohol, not coffee.”

 

“Maybe.” She rose. “I’ll be back.”

 

“Take all the time you need.”

 

She got lost searching for the nursery, but just when she was about to give up and circle back, she found the window with the babies in their plastic containers. Most of them were asleep, and nurses in their lavender scrubs were walking among them. Windblade leaned against the wall and tried to breathe, but something about the juxtaposition of Chromia in surgery and those newborns, fast asleep, made her sad. “None of you are prepared,” she said under her breath.

 

“Prepared for what?”

 

She jumped when she heard Starscream’s voice, and he steadied her with a hand to her elbow. In one hand, he held a coffee cup, but there was a string with a white tag coming out of it, and he handed it to her. “You need the caffeine.”

 

“Thanks.” She sniffed it as she brought it up to her mouth, and she was distantly pleased that it did not smell like hospital tea. “Percy tell you where I am?”

 

“Yep.” He leaned against the wall. “Wanting one of these for your very own?”

 

She nearly inhaled the hot liquid and coughed. He patted her back while she caught her breath, and once she could speak without dying, she said, “Oh no. I don’t want a gremlin, they make too much noise and they smell.”

 

“Gremlins.”

 

He was amused—she could see it in his smirk and hear the laughter in his voice, and she warmed to the subject. “Yep. They seem sweet and innocent until it’s past midnight and they’re crying because they’re hungry and then they shit all over you, or if it’s not shit, it’s puke, and honestly I just do not need one.”

 

“Glad we agree.” He paused, “But if that’s how you feel about them, why are you up here?”

 

“Because babies are calming when they’re deciding not to test their lung capacity,” it was a little too sharp, and she winced. “Sorry. I’m just...” She rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes. “It’s not good.”

 

He took a step forward, but she stepped back. “If you hug me, I will cry, and then I won’t be able to stop,” she said, her voice awkward. “So it’s nothing personal.”

 

He reached down and took her hand instead. “Is that all right?”

 

She squeezed his hand in response, and they watched the babies for a while.

 

“That one looks like a Charles,” he pointed at one of the babies wrapped in blue after putting his phone away, and _god_ , the _gendering_.

 

“Charles? They all look like aliens, so give them, like, alien names. How about Grokfar?”

 

He snorted. “Aliens?!”

 

“They have eyes slightly too big for their face, they’re mostly hairless, and their skin is soft and pudgy. Have you ever compared pop culture aliens and newborns?”

 

“No, never, but now that you’ve said it, I can’t unsee it,” he stared at the babies. “Oh my _god_.”

 

She giggled. “I’m glad to blow your mind.”

 

“Finish your tea, and then I think you should get a sandwich.”

 

“I had breakfast this morning,” she fussed.

 

He turned his stare on her. “This—Windblade, do you know the _time_?”

 

She paused. “Like...1?”

 

“Try _four_.”

 

“Oh,” that explained why she felt a little faint. “I hadn’t been paying attention.”

 

“That’s obvious. C’mon, this hospital has a deli in it.”

 

“We should get Nautica--.”

 

“Percy texted me, they’ve already been to the deli and back.”

 

“Oh, okay.” She shifted. “I’m—kind of out of it.”

 

“You have every right to be,” but his tone was one of ‘I expect better,’ and if she had more energy, she would have bristled, but he was already moving her to the elevator. As they went down, her head swam and she grabbed onto the rail for support.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” she said through her teeth, though her head continued to ring once they got off at the ground floor.

 

He was touchy, placing his hand at the small of her back and gently pushing her forward. She let him—she was shaky, but she didn’t want to lean on him because then he would know and he would have _won_ —and the deli in the hospital resembled a Subway more than an actual deli. He sat her down and went up to the counter, and she called, “Turkey!”

 

He waved a hand at her and she rested her head against the window that the table backed up against, but that just made her mind go in circles again. _She’s stable...bullet entered...ricocheted through her abdomen..._

 

“—blade.”

 

“Hm?” She lifted her head, and Starscream put down her plate.

 

“Eat.” There’s something in his voice she didn’t recognize, but she wasn’t in a place to adequately examine it.

 

She bit into the sandwich and almost gagged. “Dude, _too much spinach_.” She opened up the sub and plucked out handfuls of green leaves. Once it was at a manageable level—she could taste turkey—she closed the sandwich and ate it.

 

Through it all, he watched her. He was never—blank, but his face was entirely wiped clear of any emotions. It made her itch slightly, but he never did anything without a greater purpose, so she let it go. He might have been waiting for her to ask, and she wasn’t sure she could describe Chromia’s injuries without losing her control.

 

Once her sandwich was done, she picked at the spinach leaves halfheartedly. She normally preferred dressing, but he relaxed somewhat when she ate it. His foot nudged her leg under the table, and she flinched before she realized he wasn’t trying anything—it was a comfort gesture and she relaxed. “I’m sorry, it’s--.”

 

“Stop apologizing.”

 

“I--.”

 

“I might be an ass, but even I know that you’re not where you’d usually be because one of your best friends is in the hospital because she got shot. Relax, I’m not picking a fight or trying to.”

 

“Oh.” She breathed in deeply. “Okay.”

 

She briefly mourned the fact that she wasn’t dating someone who would reach out and take her hand after that kind of response, but instead he picked up her tray and took it to the trash, and she managed to find her footing. They worked, for the most part.

 

Even if there was a small part that was steadily starting to make her think twice about him and them. It was the part that had scared her before they actually started dating, and every time he screwed up—with the gift cards, with tracking her anemia (the only possible thing that could be worse would be tracking her periods, if her IUD _allowed_ for regular periods)—that small part got just a little stronger.

 

She just wished...that it didn’t take so much work for them to manage each other.

 

By the time they got back to the waiting room, Nautica’s shoulders slumped in relief when she saw her. “Windblade, these people are from Castleman, but I wanted to wait for you.”

 

Starscream glided over to Percy and Brainstorm, who had backed off to give them space. Windblade looked the two Castleman representatives over—it was a man and a woman, both dressed in black suits with white shirts. She idly wondered if they deliberately matched or if it was the dress code of Castleman Corporate. “Hello, I’m Windblade and you are--.”

 

“Brenda Gallagher, and this is my assistant, Paul Fineman,” the woman said. “I’m Chromia’s supervisor at Castleman, and we wanted to discuss options with Chromia’s partner.”

 

“You know the legal stuff better than me,” Nautica murmured anxiously.

 

“Right.” Windblade looked around—the waiting room was largely empty except for them and their friends, but at her look, Starscream chivvied Percy and Brainstorm out. “What are the options?”

 

“Since she was injured on the job, we will of course pay for her hospital bills and physical therapy,” Paul Fineman’s voice was thin and reedy, and he kept fidgeting with his glasses. Windblade wished he wouldn’t. “We just wanted to assure you of that.”

 

Nautica shifted, and Windblade raised her brows. “Is that explicitly in Chromia’s contract? That if she’s injured on the job, Castleman pays?”

 

“There’s something to that extent,” Brenda Gallagher was examining her, and her grey eyes were cool and measuring.

 

“I think we would all feel better if it was explicitly stated,” Windblade said quietly. “This is a hospital, so they always have a lawyer and notary on staff. I’m going to go ask the receptionist to ask them to meet us, just to be sure. Chromia’s going to be worried enough over her recovery without worrying about specifics in her contract.”

 

Brenda’s eyes iced over, and Paul narrowed his. “That’s really not--.”

 

“Oh no, we can pull up her contract right now,” Brenda interrupted, but she had lost all friendliness. “We’ll make that adjustment right now. Of course, Chromia will have to be in her right mind to _sign_ it, but we can accept it on a temporary basis until she does.”

 

“Thank you,” Windblade said. “Excuse me.”

 

It wasn’t until she went up to the receptionist and asked for the notary and lawyer that she saw the surprising trio lurking not too far out of earshot. Brainstorm didn’t appear to care, but both Percy and Starscream were looking at her with different degrees of calculation.

 

The notary and lawyer arrived promptly, and Brenda dug out her tablet to bring Chromia’s contract. They all witnessed her adding the necessary sub clause, and then the lawyer, the notary, Windblade, and Nautica all signed as witnesses. Brenda and Paul left not too long after that—thank Solus—and then the doctor from earlier was coming toward them.

 

Nautica wavered, and Windblade steadied her. “Look, she’s not—her shoulders aren’t slumped, and she’s not dragging her feet. She’s got good news.”

 

“You sure?” Nautica’s voice broke.

 

“Yes.” Windblade hoped she wasn’t wrong.

 

The doctor smiled at the two of them. “I have good news.”

 

Nautica’s knees collapsed, and Windblade caught her. “Oh thank god.”

 

“The damage was pretty extensive, but we managed to repair the worst of it and stabilized the rest. She’s due to go back into surgery in a few days, after she’s stabilized enough, but it looks fairly good.”

 

“Oh good.” Nautica leaned against Windblade, but Windblade could tell her knees were firming. “Can I—is it okay if--?”

 

“She’s currently sleeping, but we can find you a cot,” the doctor was very kind. “If you don’t mind.”

 

Nautica looked at Windblade, who nodded. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, squeezing Nautica’s arm. “Starscream will get me home. You’ll want to be there when she wakes up.”

 

Nautica threw her arms around her. “Thanks, Windy. See you later.”

 

Windblade hugged her back, and then the doctor led Nautica down the hall. The relief was making her heart race, but she held it together as she went over to the trio. “Chromia’s stable, she’ll need to go back into surgery in a few days but it looks really good.”

 

“Oh good,” Percy sighed. He reached out to squeeze her wrist, and Starscream’s eyes narrowed slightly. Brainstorm, bless him, was utterly oblivious to the tension between the two men. “Text me tomorrow, just to make sure you’re okay.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Come on, Brainstorm,” Percy tugged on Brainstorm’s sleeve and practically towed him out, and Windblade looked up at Starscream.

 

“C’mon, I’ll get you a Frosty.”

 

“That sounds...not too bad, actually.” She tugged on the ends of her hair and he picked up her hand.

 

“Good.” He led her out, and for once she was content to be led. She didn’t really want to think—maybe when they got home, she could instigate sex? She wasn’t so much into the actual sex action, but she wanted the intimacy.

 

He seemed to accept she didn’t want to talk all the way through getting in the car and finding the closest Wendy’s, but she blinked when he ordered a large Frosty and fry. “Why fries?”

 

“You’ll see.”

 

Apparently, that meant _dipping_ the fries in the Frosty. “Ewwwwww,” she groaned at him, holding her Frosty away from him. “It’s salty in my chocolate!”

 

He stuffed the fries in his mouth and gave her an obnoxious smirk. “Twy it!”

 

“ _No_ ,” she sniffed.

 

He shrugged and reached more fries for the Frosty, and she shrieked. “Stoppit!”

 

“Nope!”

 

“You’re gonna get us pulled over!”

 

“Then let me dip my fries, woman!”

 

“That is quite possibly the weirdest sentence you’ve ever said,” she tried to pitch her voice past irritation into severity, but she was finding it hard not to giggle.

 

He reached for the Frosty again, and the car swerved. She nearly dropped the Frosty onto the floor, and he glanced in the mirror. “Nope, no cops. Seriously, why are you against fries and Frosties?”

 

“Chocolate and salt do not go together,” she informed him.

 

“So I know what truffles _not_ to get you. Seriously, try it. So you don’t like it, you’ve lost nothing.”

 

“Will it get you to stop swiping at me?” she asked finally.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Fine, I will try one.”

 

She snagged a fry and dipped it into the Frosty, only to cover the tip. He rolled his eyes at her and she begrudgingly dipped it in further. He stopped at a red light and watched as she ate it with trepidation, and she pursed her lips. “Not too bad,” she allowed, “but I still prefer my chocolate without a salt taste to it.”

 

“I could make a joke--.”

 

“ _Don’t_.”

 

“Why do you insist on killing all my fun?” he complained, gesturing for the Frosty. She held it out to him, and he dunked in a handful of fries.

 

“I don’t, but you know, I _could_ if you really wanted me to...”

 

“Never mind, I take it back.” He looked at her. “Just how bad _were_ Chromia’s injuries if she needs a second surgery?”

 

“Bad enough,” Windblade exhaled shakily and crossed her ankles. “I...didn’t tell Nautica the details from what I was given. It would’ve just...made everything worse.”

 

“Would she have panicked?”

 

“So much. And she has the right to panic and to be scared, and I shouldn’t have taken that away from her b-but,” she sipped on the Frosty, and he waited for her to finish, “I would have cried and sobbed and I couldn’t have gotten myself under control once that happened.” The giggles were gone, and she could feel the tears in her throat. No, she _had_ to wait until she was home. “I was s-selfish.”

 

“Would her crying have actually helped anything?”

 

“N-no,” she sighed, “but it would have be-een cathartic.”

 

“She’ll find out soon enough without ever being told you also knew.”

 

“I know what you’re t-trying to do,” she sniffed and searched the bag for napkins. Starscream didn’t keep tissues in his car. “But it was my screw up.”

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“Feels like I did.” She wiped at her nose.

 

“You were trying to--.”

 

“I know what I did,” she snapped, “and if I’d done it for her, I’d agree with you. But I did it for me. Intent _does_ matter.”

 

He was in the process of turning, so he couldn’t turn to look at her, but she sighed. “Let me flagellate myself in peace, all right?”

 

“No. No flagellating.”

 

“But I—”

 

“So you made a selfish choice. So what? I make tons of them. And even if the reasoning was selfish, it prevented further harm done to your _best friend_. No one’s expecting you to be perfect, except you.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he parked. “So no, no flagellating. Gimme the shake.”

 

She handed him the Frosty, and she climbed out of his car. He followed after her, and when her hands were shaking too badly to put the key in the lock, he took over. He took her bag from her as she pushed the door open, and once she had crossed over the threshold, the tears she had been holding back all day rose up and consumed her.

 

She didn’t hear him close the door, but she did feel him when he caught her. He turned her around and she buried her face in his shoulder, and he sat them down so that he could hold her, one hand on the back of her neck and the other curled around her waist. They rocked back and forth as she sobbed, and he didn’t say anything comforting or anything like that. He just held her, and she held onto him with as strong a grip as she could manage.

 

When she finally calmed—and it took a while—he carefully let her go, and she sat against the couch and wiped her eyes. “S-sorry,” she rasped. “I’ve been...”

 

He ran his thumb over her cheek—she had missed a tear. “I told you, stop apologizing. You think I’d be in better shape if it was Skyfire?”

 

“N-no,” she sighed.

 

“I’m going to get you a glass of water, and then we’re going to shower, okay?” He brushed his fingers under her chin, and she lifted her chin instinctively. “Then I’m putting you to bed.”

 

“Will you s-stay?”

 

That was a smile on his face, she realized. Small, but there. “Of course. I won’t leave you alone. Plus, I still don’t have a copy of your house key, so I run the risk of leaving your house unlocked if I leave, so...”

 

She hiccupped a small laugh. “It’s a r-roommate decision to g-give you a key.”

 

“Oh.” He considered that. “Go to the bathroom, and I’ll bring the glass of water there.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She pushed herself onto her feet, and he pulled her up the rest of the way. She toddled off, and they were quiet as he brought her the water—he made her drink all of it—and then he undressed her. She was limp, lifting her arms when he told her to, and then he stuck her under the spray.

 

At least it wasn’t blistering cold that time around.

 

“Your hair’s easier to dry now that it’s shorter,” he mused, running the towel over her hair. “But I think I still prefer it long.” He kissed her forehead. “I like being one of the few people who got to see it down.”

 

“Took you almost a year,” she mumbled.

 

“It was worth it.” He found her sleep shirt and pulled it over her head. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

 

“Okay.”

 

A surprised whimper escaped her when he hoisted her up into his arms, but she didn’t fight him. She honestly wasn’t sure she could have; lethargy had set it from the prolonged crying jag and she was ready to sleep for approximately 10,000 years.

 

He set her in bed, so gently she was almost ready to cry again, and then he tucked his body around hers and pulled the covers over them both. He buried his forehead in the nape of her neck, and she closed her eyes.

 

When she woke up, the streetlights were throwing strange shadows through her curtains, and he was making the snuffling noises that always reminded her of a jet’s hum. She was overcome with fondness, her heart feeling too big for her ribcage, and without thinking about it, she whispered, “Starscream?”

 

He didn’t respond, and that made her bold. “Starscream, I--,” she took a breath, and when his hands didn’t flex on her waist or his breathing change, she said, “I love you.”

 

He slept on, and she drifted back to sleep with a content smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, when I was writing another fanfic about 2 years ago, I ended up doing a lot of research on what happens to the body post-pregnancy. Spoiler alert, it made me convinced _never to get pregnant._ One of the things that I watched was a time-lapsed video of this newborn's first year of life, with one or two seconds per day of his first year, and honestly? It took him until he was about 7 months to no longer look like an alien. Ever since, newborns are aliens and babies are gremlins. Not that they're not cute! They are. But...yeah.
> 
> Next chapter's going to wrap us up for this installment, and it's shorter than normal. Keep an eye out!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is not the end of this little universe that I've worked on for a while (we're talking like over 6 months, honestly), and while some of you may be going ??????!!!! at the ending, it is not the end. The third installment, titled 'countdown', is currently four chapters in (about 36k, give or take), and while Windblade and Starscream remain the leads, I'm developing some of the other characters also. 
> 
> One of my biggest nitpicks in a lot of shipping fic is that other major relationships tend to fall to the wayside in favor of the ship, which is not necessarily a bad thing--particularly in oneshots--but in longfic, I find that _really_ uncomfortable. These characters are people to me now, and like all people, they have a variety of relationships with a variety of people, for good or for ill. countdown has some bombshells (but not actually bombshell), particularly in regards to some other relationships and relationship sustainability. With that, I'll leave you to the curtain call of 'when you were mine', in the chapter that finally proves the title. 
> 
> Triggers for ableism, allergy attacks, and general emotional issues.

**CHAPTER FIVE: IN WHICH HURT ARRIVES WITH ALL HIS FRIENDS**

 

“So how’s Chromia doing?” Starscream wanted to know as he led her expertly through the crowds. They had been shopping—he needed some new workout gear and he’d talked her into buying some shirts—and they were headed for the food trucks that had set up outside. “She looks like she’s dying of boredom.”

 

“Oh, she is,” Windblade clustered a little closer to him, and he would never deny that he loved it. “But her doctor says she needs to exercise more with basic activities like walking, and she wants to get back to the gym. She claims she can feel her muscles atrophying.”

 

He snorted. “And Nautica?”

 

“Is over the moon. They haven’t gotten this much uninterrupted time since Chromia graduated. Of course, the fact that Chromia hasn’t been cleared yet for sex is—whoops, excuse me—just a stepping stone. Once she is, I’ll probably be asked to vacate for a night...or three.” She smiled apologetically at the woman she had bumped into.

 

“We’ve got a little under three weeks until the semester begins, so you’re welcome to come stay with me.”

 

“Yeah, but it would be so weird to get up in the morning to go brush my teeth and go ‘Good morning, Optimus.’”

 

He ignored that. “Speaking of, Thundercracker’s thinking of getting a group of us together and flying up to his house in the Hamptons the week before school starts. You interested?”

 

He could feel her pause. “He...has a house...?”

 

“Well, his family has a house, and he spent time with them earlier this summer, but they’ve since left the vacation house, and he wants to party for a weekend. One of his brothers own planes, and he’d come get us and everything.”

 

“I—uh,” she said faintly. “Need to think about it.”

 

“Okay. Pass the invitation along to Chromia and Nautica, too. They’re also invited.”

 

“Starscream, where are we _going?”_

 

“There’s a food truck that’s pretty good, and I want you to try it.”

 

Now she was actively resisting. “Starscream, I can’t do food trucks.”

 

He stopped. “Why not?”

 

She sighed at him. “Because they typically don’t cater to my allergies.”

 

“This one will be fine.”

 

“You’re sure?” she demanded, letting go of him to put her hands on her hips. “You know what I’m allergic to?”

 

“Nuts and shellfish, I will get you something with chicken in it, _all right_?”

 

“Fine,” she grumbled as she opened her bag and checked for her phone. “But I should really go with you, ask some questions--.”

 

He steered her toward one of the few empty tables. “It will be all right. Sit before some child steals one of the few tables here.”

 

She aimed a punch at his shoulder, but he stepped away before it could land. He left her at the table and went to order. He made sure to ask that Windblade’s meal wasn’t made with nuts _or_ shellfish (see, he could manage), and when he returned, she’d gotten them drinks, napkins, plasticware—everything they needed.

 

“What did you get me?” she asked, making room on the bench for him.

 

“Chicken with noodles and broccoli.”

 

“Sounds okay.”

 

“No nuts.”

 

“All right,” she leaned against him and shucked off the plastic sleeve from the fork. “What did you get?”

 

“Beef with peppers.”

 

“Ooh,” she bit into a piece of chicken and hummed absently. “Not too bad, but--,” her eyes widened, and she straightened.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

She reached for her bag frantically, and to his horror, he saw her neck turn red. She scrambled through her bag until she found her EpiPen, and he grabbed his phone.

 

With horrified fascination, he watched as she prepped the pen and stabbed her thigh, and then the operator picked up. “Yes, I need an ambulance at the Knoll Mall, my girlfriend’s having an allergic reaction.”

 

“Does she have an EpiPen?”

 

“She just used it, but I know that only gives her about 20 minutes.”

 

Windblade’s neck was red because--because of _hives_ , and she started to cough as her airway cleared. He steadied her with a hand to her back, and the operator said, “An ambulance is on the way, and they should be there within 10 minutes. Where are you?”

 

“The outside food court.”

 

“They’re heading there.”

 

Windblade’s coughing continued, and before long they heard the loud sirens. “I’ll call Nautica,” he told her as the paramedics stopped and unloaded the gurney. She managed to stand, but they got her to the gurney and the paramedics immediately gave her oxygen. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”

 

She nodded, but her eyes were red.

 

Once she was gone, he tossed out the food and went to his car, dialing as he went. “Nautica? It’s—yeah. When Windblade and I were at lunch, she had an allergic—no, she’s not okay, but she’s headed to the hospital now. I’m heading there now, do you—I’ll see you there.”

 

He had never driven faster in his life.

 

When he got the hospital, he was relieved to see that Windblade was in one of the rooms, but she still had her clothes on, not a hospital gown. A nurse was bustling around her, and she still had an oxygen mask, but she seemed to be doing better. The hives were still on her neck, but it was less red than he’d seen.

 

“Oh, are you the boyfriend?” the nurse asked cheerfully.

 

“Uh, yes. I am.” He sat down on the chair next to her and reached for her hand; she snatched it away before he could. Maybe it was because of the IV.

 

“We’ll be done in a minute. The doctor’s due to look her over in a bit, but I think she’ll be free to go, it wasn’t too bad.”

 

Windblade removed the oxygen mask from her face to say, “I’ve had worse.”

 

“Oh, well,” the nurse rolled her eyes just as cheerfully. “Then this must be old hat for you. Excuse me!”

 

Silence fell after the nurse left, and Windblade concentrated on breathing. He could tell from the wrinkle to her brows. “Windblade, are you--?”

 

“I’m here,” Nautica announced. As usual, she was dressed from head to toe in bright purple, and at some point, he would have to ask where she found jeans in that eye-smarting shade of lilac. “Starscream called me, Windy, everything okay?”

 

“No resuscitation necessary,” Windblade said. They were both startled by how nasty her voice was, if the way Nautica’s eyes widened were any indicator.

 

“How did this happen?” Nautica asked, looking to Starscream.

 

He opened his mouth to reply, and Windblade cut him off. “He took me to a food truck for lunch and decided to order for me.”

 

Nautica’s mouth softened with horror. “Oh Starscream, you didn’t.”

 

“What’s the problem? I made sure there wasn’t anything in her food,” his voice was too defensive and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop it from leeching into his tone.

 

“Of course, he didn’t stop to think about the possibility of cross-contamination,” Windblade removed the oxygen mask to glare at him. “A kitchen that small, that moves, that routinely uses peanut oil and various kinds of nuts in their other dishes? They’re not going to be as careful as a full kitchen.”

 

“You need to breathe,” Nautica said, worried.

 

Windblade was fighting to keep her voice even, he could see it. “There is a reason why _I_ have to--,” her heart rate was spiking, and she put the oxygen mask on her face.

 

Nautica took over. “There are questions she needs to ask at new places,” she said gently. “Don’t feel bad, I had to learn this too.”

 

“But _you_ never screwed up this colossally,” Windblade spat, “out of misplaced _ego_.”

 

“Windblade, you need to stop,” Nautica said, her voice firm. “Before you say something you regret.”

 

“I am not regretting anything,” she hissed, but she needed the oxygen mask back.

 

Nautica looked at Starscream. “Why don’t you give us the room?”

 

He pushed himself out of his chair. “Oh, definitely. Call me when I’m not going to be verbally pummeled.”

 

Nautica closed the door behind him. “Windblade--.”

 

“We are _done_ ,” she took the oxygen mask off again. “I’ve let things slide before, but this is too much.”

 

“He _didn’t_ know.”

 

“I could have died!” Windblade coughed again, and she took a few quick breaths. “He could have—does he even know how to use an EpiPen?”

 

“Have you taught him?”

 

“Is he aware of Google?”

 

“Windblade, you’re blaming him for a mistake I could have made before I learned,” Nautica reached out to take her hand. “You’re allowed to be angry, and you are, but this is a genuine mistake.”

 

“If it was a moment of thoughtlessness, I would forgive him, but he refused to let me order with him, even though he didn’t know my questions. He didn’t think and I could have _died_. That’s not someone I can afford to have around.”

 

“So this is it, you’re throwing in the towel.”

 

“We’re done,” Windblade agreed. “He’s unsafe, and as good at, well, everything he does, I have to think of my safety.”

 

“I can’t argue with that,” Nautica flopped down in the chair. “But I think you’re being too hasty. Remember the pistachio ice cream fiasco?”

 

“That was you offering me some of your ice cream, not buying it for me.”

 

“It could have easily gone the other way.”

 

Windblade closed her eyes and begged for patience. “We are done,” she said slowly, “because he was too arrogant to think through what I would need. That’s the crux of the problem, Nautica. Not the mistake, the reasoning. It matters.”

 

“Okay, but let me ask you--.”

 

The door opened, and the doctor came in. “So a case of anaphylaxis, huh?” She looked over Windblade’s chart and the heart monitor. “You’re going to need to stay here for a bit longer, I’m afraid, I don’t like how your heart’s jumping all over the place. I don’t think you’ll need to be admitted, though, you can go home in about an hour. Can I bring your boyfriend in? Is he taking you home?”

 

Nautica cleared her throat. “I’m going to take her home, actually. My girlfriend’s still at home, sick, so it won’t be that big of a deal.”

 

“That’s what I like to see, girls supporting each other.” The doctor removed her stethoscope and leaned over Windblade. “All right, breathe for me?”

 

They ran through all the checks, and the doctor nodded when they were done. “All right, so you sound good, but I still want you to sit here and breath for a while. No more talking, got it?”

 

Windblade nodded, and if you hadn’t known her, you would have thought butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The doctor squeezed her arm and left, and Starscream came back in. He was sullen, and his lower lip extended slightly.

 

 _Bad idea_ , Nautica wanted to tell him, _not when she’s already furious at you_.

 

“What’s the verdict? Do I get to take you home?”

 

Nautica rose when Windblade’s arm jerked. “Actually, I’m gonna take her home. She needs some time to cool off, and she’ll be exhausted once the antihistamines catch up completely. Why don’t you come by in a few days and talk then?”

 

_Think it through, please._

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Windblade said tonelessly.

 

Starscream’s lips thinned, but he didn’t fight it, and Nautica breathed out a silent sigh of relief. It would have gotten super ugly if he had. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he chose not to in favor of leaving. Windblade relaxed as soon as he cleared the door, and Nautica sat down again. “You just breathe for a while, and then we’ll talk when we get home.”

 

“You think I shouldn’t?”

 

“I think if you’re going to do it, you need to do it for a better reason than you being paralyzed of making a commitment.”

 

Windblade looked thoughtful. “That’s--.”

 

“We’ll talk about it at home,” Nautica cut across, “you _breathe_.”

 

Windblade waved a hand, and Nautica pulled out her phone. She needed to kill an hour.

 

\--

 

Chromia watched Windblade thoughtfully. Windblade was sitting down on the couch, ostensibly reading some news on her laptop, but she kept tapping her fingers against her thigh, and finally Chromia wheeled herself into the living room proper. “I got you some mint cookies from the grocery store.”

 

Windblade’s head snapped up, and her eyes were red. “I keep thinking about it, and...I don’t know what to do.”

 

Chromia leaned back in her chair. God, she couldn’t wait to finally be able to move on her own. “Talk me through it, then.”

 

“I’m afraid of him,” Windblade said, and Chromia could see how it took everything she had to say that. “Not that he’d hurt me deliberately, but that...there could be collateral. And he doesn’t care about my health boundaries, which is a _huge_ red flag, but part of me wants to let him slide--.”

 

“You’ve given everyone opportunities to slide on that once,” Chromia said. She wasn’t trying to cause an argument, but she knew that Windblade needed a counterpoint to further figure out how she was feeling.

 

“But the opportunities for sliding didn’t come with an actual allergic reaction, and technically...technically I’ve already given him multiple opportunities. He tries to manage my anemia.”

 

Chromia hissed. _That_ one she hadn’t known about. “How many times?”

 

“At least three that I know of.” Windblade leaned her chin in her hand. “And I like being around him, most of the time. The sex is fantastic, but.”

 

“You can’t build a lasting relationship on sex, and you need emotional security in any kind of lasting relationship.”

 

“Yeah. But every time he screws up because he doesn’t know my boundary, or he gets mad at me because I have priorities other than him when he wants to be my priority—he’s better at it now, but he’s not really...great at it—and I just.” Windblade shook her head. “This is taking too much work for the reward.”

 

“You know how I feel about him,” Chromia pointed out. “No matter what, he’s still that asshole who made you cry that one night.”

 

“And he’s a complete and utter shithead for doing that,” Windblade agreed, “though—not that it says much about him—I don’t think he would do that now.”

 

“Good.” Chromia mulled over that. “You know that I largely think that that the whole ‘changing people for the better in the relationship’ is crap, but...you did compel him to be a better person.”

 

“All I did was remind him I have boundaries,” Windblade said with a slightly-watery laugh. “I don’t think that’s something someone ever made him care about before.”

 

“Do you like who you are around him?”

 

Windblade stopped, and Chromia watched her. Over the past few months, Windblade had actually become more than her academic courseload and her job, which was nice. She was sleeping better, _eating_ better, and smiling more. Whether that change came from Starscream or her job with Optimus, Chromia couldn’t tell, but she liked the happier Windblade. “I don’t know,” Windblade said after a few moments passed. “I’m more competitive around him, and I feel like I’m looking for fault. Which, I _hate_. There’s good in him, I know, but I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly looking for it.”

 

“The decision’s yours, and I’ll back you no matter what you choose, but I think you have valid reasons for either side,” Chromia sighed. “Go with what you feel is better for _you_. If he’s unsafe and you don’t trust your health around him, that’s enough.”

 

Windblade exhaled. “Thanks, Chromia.”

 

“Anytime, doll.”

 

\--

 

Windblade shifted from foot to foot while she obsessively checked her phone. Starscream was coming by, and she _hated_ having the break-up conversation, but it needed to happen.

 

Chromia wheeled her chair into the entryway. “He’ll be here, stop fidgeting.”

 

“I just—want to get this over with.”

 

“Stop fidgeting.”

 

Windblade straightened her shoulders. “There, I stopped. Happy?”

 

“About as much as you’re about to be.”

 

“Do we have--.”

 

“Yes, we have sufficiently buried ourselves in mint cookies.”

 

She breathed in. “He’s here. Go away.”

 

“Breathe!”

 

“Fine!”

 

Windblade met him on the porch, and although Chromia was idling with her wheelchair in the hall, she made sure to close the door. He looked her over and then back to her face. “How are you doing?”

 

“Fine, much better.”

 

“About a few days, I didn’t--.”

 

“We’re done,” it was easier to interrupt him, and he didn’t even look that surprised. He probably could tell it was coming. “I—didn’t mean it to come out like that, but you and me...we’re done.”

 

“What exactly was my sin?”

 

Her stomach started to knot. “It was--.”

 

“If it’s for a mistake that anyone could have made, you are not the person I thought you were.”

 

“No, it’s not--.”

 

“Or if it’s for the fact that I ordered for you, you’ve never--.”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” she blurted, and he stopped talking. The only sign of his startlement were the slight widening of his eyes, but she plowed on to prevent him from interrupting her again. “Look, yes, it’s annoying that you order for me, but it’s not a big deal when it’s places that I know. When it’s places that I don’t, I have questions to ask, questions you won’t think to ask, because--.”

 

“Because I haven’t gained admittance to your special club of those who know the full details about your health.”

 

Her palm itched. “That is _not it_.”

 

“Then what is? Explain.”

 

“It’s that you don’t care,” she exploded, closing her hands into fists to keep from slapping him. “You don’t care to _ask_. I could have _died_ because _you_ didn’t know to ask the right questions, and you didn’t stop to think about why I needed to ask them! My safety comes first, always. If you’re putting my safety at risk, then I can’t have you around.”

 

He jutted his chin out, and she braced herself. “So we’re done.”

 

“We’re done.”

 

“And this has nothing to do with the fact that I have to practically drag you kicking and screaming to various milestones.”

 

Her temper was boiling, but she managed to hold it together. “You need to leave.”

 

“I’m happy to go.” He stormed off the porch and Windblade returned inside.

 

Chromia was still in the hall, and Windblade slid down the wall until she was sitting down. “Well, that went horribly.”

 

“He’s a raging egotist, of course he won’t take it well.” Chromia expertly managed the chair until she parked it near Windblade. “You going to cry?”

 

Tears were already rising. “I think so.”

 

Chromia patted her shoulder. “You go right ahead, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

 

Windblade didn’t need permission.

 

\--

 

Percy frowned at his research as he typed. Brainstorm had done the data collection, but he hadn’t managed to record in the way Percy preferred, so writing up the data would take even longer. _Wonderful._

 

There was a loud banging, and Skyfire put aside his book. “I got it, you keep working.”

 

“It’s probably your lab partner,” Percy muttered, “coming to complain about something.”

 

“He doesn’t always come by to complain,” Skyfire disagreed.

 

“Often enough.”

 

Percy had his back to the door, but he could hear the surprise in Skyfire’s voice when he said, “Starscream, are you all right?”

 

“I need to talk to you,” Starscream’s voice was muffled and unusually subdued.

 

Skyfire looked over at Perceptor, who sighed and carried his laptop into the bedroom. Once Skyfire closed the door, he drew Starscream into the kitchen and put him on one of the barstools and went hunting for the small bottle of whiskey he kept. “What happened?”

 

Starscream scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I fucked up, is what I did. And then I lashed out, which is what I do when I’ve been called out and I know they’re right, and—Windblade broke it off.”

 

Skyfire paused. “What, precisely, happened?”

 

Starscream accepted the bottle of whiskey but didn’t unscrew the top. “I wasn’t careful enough with her food, and she had an allergic reaction. Apparently, it wasn’t all that bad, but she could have died.”

 

“And that’s why? That’s a mistake--.”

 

“—anybody could make? Yeah. No, her point was that I didn’t care enough to learn about what _she_ needed, which...” _then_ Starscream unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a long pull, “is not entirely incorrect. And that if I’m unsafe, she can’t keep me around. Basically.”

 

“Oh.” That was fair, Skyfire admitted to himself, and from Starscream’s demeanor, he conceded the point as well. “So what do you want to do?”

 

“Besides drink?” Starscream sipped to punctuate his statement. “I don’t know, I just--.”

 

“She’s not someone you can just...forget about.”

 

Starscream shrugged. “We’ll see where I am in a week, after the post-break-up stuff has mostly passed.”

 

Skyfire leaned back, a little wary. “That’s your scheming face. Are you planning on getting back at her for this?”

 

“Not necessarily getting _back_ at, but...like I said, let’s see what’s going on in a week. Anything can change.”

 

Skyfire looked to his couch. “You wanna stay here tonight? I’m not sure I trust you to drive in this state.”

 

Starscream closed the whiskey bottle. “If you don’t mind...yeah, please.”

 

Skyfire’s brows went up. Starscream _never_ said please...or at least, hadn’t since he and Windblade...

 

With an internal sigh, Skyfire decided he’d help Starscream scheme with whatever plot he would no doubt come up with. If only because he liked the changes he saw.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would dearly love to hear your thoughts. Even if it's a variation of ??!!!!!. 
> 
> I promise I'm not cackling, and I also promise to answer all questions to a given extent (spoilers, after all, are a thing). Stay tuned! countdown will be started sometime next week.

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't heard the gloriousness that is _Hamilton_ , I would definitely recommend it. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jl6WwWiLZYs) is Guns and Ships, and good _god_.
> 
> Hamilton is available to listen to on Spotify, I seriously cannot plug it enough.
> 
> Okay, so I was going to write the dinner scene, but I couldn't make it work within the narrative, so it shall remain a [Noodle Incident.](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/NoodleIncident)


End file.
